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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907519">Her Own Instrument</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prixin47/pseuds/IRememberThereWasMist47'>IRememberThereWasMist47 (Prixin47)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:22:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prixin47/pseuds/IRememberThereWasMist47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phantom of the Opera is the story of a young woman who was groomed from childhood to be in the thrall of a charismatic mystery man. </p><p>Love Never Dies is about the choices she made, the woman she became, and the downfall that came to her at his hands.</p><p>Her Own Instrument is about the lifetimes that followed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé &amp; Madame Giry, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Meg Giry, Erik | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Meg Giry, Gustave Daae &amp; Raoul de Chagny, Gustave Daaé &amp; Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny &amp; Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny &amp; Madame Giry, Raoul de Chagny &amp; Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Peerless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Subscribe for regular updates</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik discovers a side of Christine he didn't know existed.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once she was certain that Raoul would not return from bed again, demanding still more explanation of their new contract with "Mr. Y," Christine walked again to the balcony to take the night air. It was her habit in these moments after Raoul's explosions to soothe herself by singing. She picked up on a new thread of music that had found its way into her head unbidden and began experimenting. </p><p>Soon, a lively little melody emerged.</p><p>It rose and fell with playful delight and brought her back to a night many years ago when her father had improvised a merry tune for a group of laborers gathered around an outdoor fire after a long day's work. Soon, their weary feet had taken on new life and they were clapping and dancing, joy lighting up their faces. Breathing deeply, she found herself swept up in their delight. Her skin erupted into goosebumps and her heart beat ever faster at the memory of the joy on her father's face, and on the faces of those weary, downtrodden people.</p><p>And then her father had coaxed her, then seven or eight, to sing for them. She could not remember what selection she had chosen, perhaps "Ave Maria" or some children's song, but she did remember the look on their faces. The warmth. The kindness. The tears. Together, she and her father had moved them and made their burdens lighter. This was their gift and their work.</p><p>"Christine..."</p><p>Hidden in the shadows on the balcony, Erik still lurked listening to Christine's supple voice. The joy in her song brought him back to that long ago night when she had given him a chance; when he had held the love of his life in his arms and taken her, body and soul.</p><p>He felt a flash of possessive rage. Who was the composer of this music that Christine sang with such fervor? Christine was his instrument and his alone. She could sing for no other.</p><p>He was about to burst into the room again and demand to know whose music this was when her singing stopped. He heard footfalls moving away from the window, the cover of the grand piano's keys lifting, a bench being pulled back. And then he heard deft, confident hands darting across the keys of the piano, fleshing out the lovely melody. The music stopped again, and he heard the unmistakable sound of pen scratching on paper.</p><p>And with a rush of fierce pride in his pupil, he realized that Christine had composed this.</p><p>She was her own instrument at last.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The rest of this story takes place after the end of Love Never Dies, and at times you may wonder why a story called "her own instrument" would unfold after the death of the "her" in question.</p><p>I believe that in time you will appreciate the answer.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Teach me to live</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik discovers just how deep Christine's gifts really went.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: suicidal ideation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I believe she would have wanted you and Gustave to have these."</p><p>The Vicomte's voice was clipped; the undercurrent of his grief intermingled with a hefty dose of brandy.</p><p>Erik watched his own long fingers reach, seemingly of their own accord, to accept the thick leather folio from the younger man's well-manicured hands.</p><p>"Thank you," he managed.</p><p>Raoul nodded curtly before leaving Erik alone once again in his office with his reeling, nauseating grief and guilt. More than once over the last handful of hours, his eyes had darted to the wooden case where his Punjab lasso lay, beckoning him to a quick and fitting end to his ignominious life. The thought of Gustave was all that kept him from it.</p><p>The faint sent of rosewater reached his battered brain and for one blissful moment of hope he turned, expecting to see her smile. But of course she was not there. Nor would she ever be again.</p><p>He registered that the scent was wafting up from the leather bound pages he held listlessly in his lap.</p><p>"Christine."</p><p>Eager for any scrap of her, he hastily undid the laces holding the papers together and caressed the first page with all the love he could no longer lavish upon her. On it, he found a piano invention, a scant 40 bars that began in F Major but evolved neatly into D minor in its final measures. It was signed C. Daaé and dated 1896, the year after he'd left her alone and pregnant on that ruined rooftop, the worst mistake in a life filled with more than he could count.</p><p>He pulled it out of the stack, leaving the rest on his desk, and strode quickly to the piano where he played the little piece reverently. It was not a work of genius by any measure, but it demonstrated theoretical mastery and was evocative in its own sweet way. He played it again and felt the knot in his heart unlock just a little. </p><p>He brought the page lovingly back to the desk and tucked it back in the folio, drawing out the second piece.</p><p>He went on like this for several hours; cataloguing a vast and quickly-evolving set of inventions, etudes, sonatas, and, towards the end, a piano concerto that was masterful even by his own definition, signed C. Daaé, 1905.</p><p>When he reached the final pages at the bottom of the folio, his heart nearly shattered.</p><p>Here was a stunning duet for soprano and baritone, also dated 1905, with only a single violin for accompaniment. It was the only one of her pieces she had titled: "Angel." There were no lyrics, but the phrasing was obvious nevertheless. He drew out his violin and played, simultaneously singing the part that was so clearly written for his voice and imagining her honey warm coloratura blending perfectly with his.</p><p>After sobbing his way through the final few bars and drawing the piece to a close, he felt paradoxically better, as if he had been given one perfect afternoon with her.</p><p>He resolved to teach every one of these pieces to his son, <em>their</em> son.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Here in this room</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik and Raoul stumble forward.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Did she have a teacher?”</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>Raoul turned to see the forlorn figure of “Mr. Y,” Christine’s blighted “Angel of Music,” standing in the doorway of his hotel room.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Beg pardon?” he asked. He’d heard the wretched man clearly enough but he needed a moment to compose himself.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Did she have a teacher?” he asked again. “Someone who worked with her on the pianoforte, or…” he trailed off, haplessly.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Raoul wanted to find some reason to take issue with the man’s question and pound the side of his face that did not resemble mincemeat until he was symmetrical at last. But as he looked at the bedraggled creature standing before him, more pitiful in his grief even than Raoul felt himself, he felt all the fight go out of him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He poured himself another glass of brandy and inclined his head as if to ask, “would you like one?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The masked man nodded in response and Raoul poured him a generous glass.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Thank you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It was the second time today he’d heard those words from this strange creature, this man who had held Christine in thrall her whole life long.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He turned to face the balcony overlooking the park.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“She did have a teacher, yes. For several years after Gustave was born, she had a piano teacher. Madame something-or-other. I never did make her acquaintance except in passing. After the old woman died, Christine did not engage a new tutor. By then she could have taught the devil himself.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Did you know she was composing?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I saw her writing at the pianoforte from time to time. I imagined she was making notes to herself of some kind. But did I know she was composing what I gave you this afternoon? No. It seems there was much I did not know about my wife.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>There was a long pause, then the creature spoke again.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I wish I knew how to apologize properly,” he said, “I know that I have caused you incalculable pain and I am sorry for it.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Incalculable pain?” Raoul rounded on him again with a renewed urge to throw his fists into that distorted face again and again. “Let me tell you about incalculable pain. Every day of our marriage, Christine was somewhere else. She went through the motions, gracefully even. There were times I could make her smile, but mostly she was just far away. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>"The only times she seemed to fully exist were with Gustave and in front of that piano, even more so than when she was onstage. This love affair with music was always something of a mystery to me, but now I understand it perfectly. She loved <em>you</em>, and you <em>took</em> her and left her <em>pregnant</em> with your child. She spent the rest of her life feeling that the angel of her childhood dreams had abandoned her and <em>still </em>she loved you more than she could ever have loved me.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Do not fret over <em>my </em>pain, <em>Monsieur Le Fant</em>ô<em>me,” </em>he spat. “It is her pain, and pain of that little boy that you should be most concerned with.” He gestured to the door behind which Gustave slept. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The boy’s fate was still an open question between them. Raoul had accepted the truth when Gustave shared Christine’s last words with him, but he had also been the only father Gustave had ever known and he didn’t think that leaving him in the sole custody of a murderous eccentric would be in the child’s best interests.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“May I teach the boy?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Beg pardon?” once again, the Vicomte played for time.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“May I teach him? His mother left him a rich inheritance. Her compositions are remarkable. I do not say that merely because I loved her. She had a spark within her that I failed to perceive. It seems there was much that I, too, did not know about her.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>A long silence descended between them, the unanswered question of Gustave’s tutelage hanging in the air as they finished their brandies and Raoul refilled his while the masked man demurred.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Finally, Raoul spoke. “You may teach him. One hour a night. Here in this room. And I shall be present.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He heard a muffled sob. “Thank you.”</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Father once spoke of an angel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gustave wonders. Raoul decides.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gustave still did not fully understand how he could have a different father than the one he had known his whole life. He supposed that he did not know what made a father, beyond that a father was married to a mother. What he did know was that Mother had told him that the masked man who thrilled and terrified him was his real father, and so it must be true.</p><p>He closed his eyes and imagined Mother, the way she had looked that night she sang for the last time. “Like a queen in a book,” he'd told her. That’s how he imagined her now: queen of the angels, singing sweet melodies to carry him through the day and night. Her voice made everything beautiful: the ripple of sunlight on the water, the flight of shore birds, even his own tears when Father explained what “dead” truly meant.</p><p>“Look with your heart and not with your eyes,” she had told him. His heart knew that he and Father cared for each other, but Father did not understand him the way Mother had.</p><p>But the masked man? He understood the wild fancies, the sensations bigger than his own soul that overcame him, that left him simultaneously overwhelmed and full of joy. He knew that the masked man could explain them to him.</p><p>And so he was pleased, if a little frightened, when Father told him that the masked man was to teach him music.</p><p>“I will be just in the next room,” said Father, “and if you are frightened or uncomfortable in any way, call out to me.”</p><p>“I understand, Father,” the boy replied solemnly.</p><p>Raoul grimaced inwardly. Gustave had begun to make a point of saying “Father” several times in a sentence whenever he addressed him. Raoul wasn’t sure he deserved this display of loyalty.</p><p>In retrospect, he recognized that he had always felt there was something amiss with the whole situation. His wife, so strangely distant. Their son, so strangely unlike him. Perhaps that was why he had neglected the boy so, never bringing him along for the hunting and shooting and boxing that his friends’ sons delighted in. He supposed that Gustave might not have enjoyed those activities, and it troubled him to have a boy who was much more like his mother and her sewer angel than himself.</p><p>He chastised himself as the words “sewer angel” passed through his mind. For Gustave's sake, he had to stop thinking of Christine’s great love with so much contempt. There had to be some kind of peace between them.</p><p>He resolved to make an effort to be kinder to them both, father and son alike.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Her teacher</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The first lesson</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gustave entered the parlor a little stiffly when the masked man arrived to teach him. He wasn’t quite sure how to greet this man, so strange and familiar at once. </p><p>An embrace was too informal, a handshake too businesslike. Without thinking, he performed a little bow from the waist and was pleased to see a smile flicker across the unmasked side of the man’s face before he bowed in response.</p><p>“Shall we play?” he asked.</p><p>Gustave’s apprehension and awkwardness fell away without him even noticing it. “Yes!” he replied and crossed swiftly to the piano and sat. The masked man pulled up a chair next to him.</p><p>“Would you like me to play you the most difficult piece I already know?”</p><p>“That seems as good a place as any to begin.”</p><p>The boy stretched his long fingers and took a breath before launching into a passable rendition of Bach’s Invention in F Major, somewhat under tempo and with more than a few mistakes, but still remarkable for a child of scarcely ten years.</p><p>“I know it needs work,” Gustave said when he had finished, “I had only been studying it for two weeks before we left for America and there was no piano on the ship.”</p><p>“You are correct that it needs work,” the masked man replied, “but I believe we can address your struggles relatively quickly. Do you have the music with you?”</p><p>“Yes,” replied Gustave. “It is in my room. I’ll go and fetch it.”</p><p>He got up and practically scampered to his room, giving Erik time to collect himself a little. This boy was a true marvel. He tried to recall his own musicianship at ten years of age and realized that, at that point in his life, he’d had scant access to musical instruments of any variety. This child had been given opportunities he had been denied. He made a mental note to thank the Vicomte for giving his son (their son?) the musical education he had been denied at that age.</p><p>Gustave returned with a folio of Bach inventions and they began to work on the piece measure by measure.</p><p>“The trick,” Erik explained “is to play the phrase slowly and correctly two or three times at most and then move on to something else. You can work on another phrase or get up and stretch your legs. Move your body around a bit. Give your mind a chance to absorb the information before you drill down again.”</p><p>Gustave got up and spun around the room, a grin of delight spreading across his face. “Madame Picard did not brook these sorts of disruptions during our lessons.”</p><p>“It is a trick I discovered on my own,” replied Erik, grinning at his son’s delight. “She very likely did not know.”</p><p>Gustave stopped spinning. “Did you teach Mother this trick? Father said you were her teacher.”</p><p>Erik’s voice caught a little in his throat as he responded, “yes. I believe I did. Possibly when she was about your age.”</p><p>“Is that how you knew her?” Gustave asked. “Because you taught her singing lessons?”</p><p>“Yes,” Erik replied carefully. He was unsure how much the boy knew.</p><p>“Father says you were her special friend at the opera. Did you sing there as well?”</p><p>“No. I would not have been welcome on the stage, I think.” He gestured to the mask.</p><p>“What…what happened?” Gustave asked. “Why is your face like that?”</p><p>Coming from anyone else, the question would have provoked his wrath, but the boy had asked so gently and honestly. A child’s curiosity, not an adult’s scorn.</p><p>“I was born this way,” he replied.</p><p>“Oh,” replied Gustave, child’s curiosity now satisfied. “Shall we play again… sir?”</p><p>Erik nodded and the boy sat down at the piano again and played the stubborn passage again, flawlessly.</p><p>“You see?” Erik said, clapping his hands.</p><p>Gustave beamed.</p><p>“Time for bed now,” said Raoul, coming back into the room with his pocket watch in his hand.</p><p>“Father!” Gustave whined. “Just a few more minutes?”</p><p>“I’m afraid not,” said Raoul. “It really is time for bed.”</p><p>Gustave got up from the piano bench and slumped towards his bedroom before turning back to Erik.</p><p>“Thank you… sir,” he said.</p><p>“You are most welcome,” replied Erik, trying to hide his disappointment. The hour had gone by so fast.</p><p>Gustave hazarded one more question. “What am I to call you?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Erik,” he replied at last, “you may call me Erik.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Guide and guardian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gustave asks more questions. Raoul makes Erik an offer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Erik,” Gustave asked, “did you know Mother wrote this?”</p><p>The boy had been working on one of Christine’s first etudes, having mastered her early inventions over the past few weeks, and was struggling mightily with a little section of triplets punctuated by half note rests.</p><p>“No,” he replied, “she began these after we parted company.”</p><p>“But you were her teacher.”</p><p>“I taught her to sing, Gustave. I did not think to teach her anything more.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Erik bit his lower lip, a habit of Christine’s that had somehow infiltrated his being since her death. “Because she was a woman and I underestimated her,” he finally admitted.</p><p>“Can women not be composers?”</p><p>“Of course they can. Look at what your own mother did,” he gestured to the sheaf of papers on the desk next to them.</p><p>“You’re angry,” said Gustave, tensing up. Erik’s anger frightened him.</p><p>“I’m angry at myself,” he replied, standing and rubbing the back of his neck. “There was much about Christine that I did not understand because I did not take the time. I think I cared more about the way her voice made all the suffering of my life seem to vanish.”</p><p>“Because of your face?”</p><p>“That is what I used to think,” said Erik, “but sometimes we have no one to blame for our greatest misfortunes but ourselves.”</p><p>“Did you love Mother very much?” Gustave asked.</p><p>“In every way I could,” Erik replied, growing uncomfortable. “But perhaps we have taken too long a pause. Try again.”</p><p>Gustave tackled the phrase once again. The first two bars were flawless, but he stumbled on the next rest and his left hand got away from him.</p><p>“And what do we do when we make a mistake?” asked Erik.</p><p>He started from the spot he’d flubbed and played it through, very slowly and correctly and then repeated it before pausing.</p><p>“What kind of suffering?”</p><p>Thankfully, Raoul walked into the room before there was time for him to attempt to dodge the question. “It’s time for bed, Gustave.”</p><p>Erik stood and began packing his papers while Gustave made his customary entreaties for “just a few more minutes,” and Raoul told him “no” as usual.</p><p>Raoul turned to Erik, “perhaps you would like to stay for a drink after Gustave is asleep? We have matters to discuss.”</p><p>“As you wish,” replied Erik, more than a little surprised. He sat down at the piano to wait and began softly playing through the section Gustave had been struggling with. It was a diabolical passage, simple and true to the ear when played, but technically challenging. The piece was dated 1897.</p><p>He marveled again at how quickly Christine's talent had developed in the span of two short years and began mentally replaying her early lessons with him, looking for the clues he had missed.</p><p>Raoul found him lost in reverie, staring at the sheet music and cleared his throat. "Brandy?” he asked the man he was taking great pains to think of as “Erik.”</p><p>“Yes. Thank you.”</p><p>Raoul poured two glasses and handed one to the masked man before sitting on the sofa and fixing him with his gaze. Erik met his eyes for a fraction of a second, then looked away and sipped his drink. When Raoul had first noticed this behavior several weeks ago, he’d suspected that the older man was too ashamed to look him in the eye, but then he had recognized this as a trait of Gustave’s as well. Another link in the chain between father and son.</p><p>“You wished to speak to me?” Now it was Erik’s turn to draw Raoul from his reverie.</p><p>“Yes. I have made arrangements to remain in America for the time being. I have secured an apartment for Gustave and myself in Manhattan and I wondered….” he took a rather large sip of brandy, “if Gustave could join you here at Phantasma on the weekends. You would, of course, be welcome to continue teaching him in the evenings if you wish to travel ‘up town’ as they say here.”</p><p>Erik was speechless for several seconds and Raoul found himself more than a little amused at the prospect of having dumbfounded this particularly opinionated individual.</p><p>“Thank you,” Erik replied at last. “I should like that very much. I shall take over this lodging permanently once you vacate it so that Gustave need not leave his room.”</p><p>“A sensible approach,” replied Raoul. He was not yet convinced that this man was ready to be a father, but his care for the boy had proved genuine and he was confident he wouldn’t endanger Gustave’s safety, at least not intentionally. “And he must keep a regular bedtime. 8:30, no later.”</p><p>“You have my word.”</p><p>“And no misadventures. He is ten years old.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of anything of the sort."</p><p>“Very well then.”</p><p>Erik finished the last of his brandy and stood, Raoul joined him and offered him his hand to shake. Erik took it, looked Raoul in the eye, and then swiftly away again.</p><p>“Gustave does that too,” said Raoul, releasing his hand. “He does not look people in the eye. Do you know why?”</p><p>“When I look people in the eye, I feel as though they are about to leap into my mind and take control of me somehow,” replied Erik. “I dislike the sensation.”</p><p>“Perhaps it is the same with Gustave. I will ask him.”</p><p>“Goodnight,” said Erik, doffing his fedora and tipping it to the younger man.</p><p>“Goodnight,” Raoul replied, and showed the masked man to the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The dungeon of my black despair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Raoul pays a visit</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Raoul shuddered as the barred door slammed behind him with the definitive rasp of metal on metal. In front of him, another door was opened by Mrs. Richards, a tall, flinty woman in her mid fifties and the warden of the women’s prison at Sing Sing.</p><p>“As you are not family, you may only have twenty minutes with the prisoner,” Richards explained to Raoul as they strode down the corridor. Raoul almost had to run to keep up with the long-legged woman’s strides. “If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all, but you being a French nobleman seems to have impressed someone at a higher pay grade.”</p><p>“Understood, ma’am,” Raoul replied, deciding that deference was his best chance of being able to return. “I thank you kindly for seeing me in.”</p><p>Richards gave him an almost imperceptible nod by way of reply.</p><p>They arrived at a bare little room and Mrs. Richards unlocked yet another barred door.</p><p>“Wait here,” she said, gesturing to a wooden chair, which was bolted to the floor. “They’ll bring her in shortly.”</p><p>She closed the door and locked it, then turned and receded from view.</p><p>A handful of minutes later, the barred door at the other end of the room opened and two uniformed women brought in Meg Giry, shackled hand and foot. One woman took a key from her pocket and opened a shackle on the other side of the table. Meg sat and the woman locked her wrists to the table in a practiced motion before looking up at Raoul. “Twenty minutes.”</p><p>The women left the room, locking the door behind them.</p><p>“Monsieur le Vicomte,” Meg began, “when mother wrote that you would be coming to see me, I could scarcely believe it.”</p><p>“I can hardly believe it myself,” Raoul said, studying the girl. Until their mysterious disappearance ten years ago, the Girys had been the closest thing Christine had to living family. He could hardly imagine that Christine would have wanted this for Meg, especially not over a tragic mistake. But the lawmen of New York State saw things differently and so here Meg was, awaiting trial for murder.</p><p>“How are you faring in here?” he asked, and the poor woman burst into tears.</p><p>“It’s awful. I’ve spent a great deal of time in large groups of women all competing with each other for the eye of the choreographer or the ballet master, but it’s nothing to this lot. There isn’t an ounce of human kindness in this whole godforsaken place.”</p><p>“I promise, I will do whatever I can to get you out of here,” Raoul said, reaching across the table and taking her hands. “Christine would not have wanted this.”</p><p>“Christine,” Meg said, her eyes filming over with even deeper grief. “Christine.” She wept for several uncomfortable minutes, not letting go of Raoul’s hands. Finally she spoke again, her voice raspy and very far away. “I thank you for your kindness, Monsieur le Vicomte, but I cannot imagine what I could have done to deserve it. I took your wife from you. I took Gustave’s mother from him. I belong here.”</p><p>“No,” Raoul replied firmly, “you do not. From what I’m told, you were in such a state you could not have known what you were doing. There will be a trial and all of this will come to light. I will testify to your character and your intentions and I will see to it that everyone else does as well.”</p><p>“<em>Everyone</em> else?” Meg asked, warily.</p><p>“I assume you are asking about Erik.”</p><p>“Yes,” she said, more than a little surprised to hear the Vicomte use the Master’s given name.</p><p>“He is not ready,” replied Raoul sincerely, “but he will be. I will make certain of it.”</p><p>“Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte,” Meg said, “from the very bottom of my heart.”</p><p>The doors clanked open. “Alright Frenchie, your time’s up,” said one of the uniformed women as they came back into the room.</p><p>“That can’t have been twenty minutes,” Raoul protested as they unlocked Meg from the table.</p><p>“Rules is rules.”</p><p>“Meg,” Raoul called to her at the top of his voice in English as they led her away, “stay strong for us.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Give me the strength to try</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik prepares for Gustave's return.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As the time for Gustave’s first weekend visit drew closer, Erik found himself in a flurry of anxiety. Raoul and the boy had vacated their rooms at Phantasma for their new apartment on the Upper East Side the previous weekend. Erik had moved in straight away, striving to have everything in order by the time his son returned.</p><p>He was hastily depositing a stack of his sleeping masks into the drawer of the bedside table when a glint caught his eye. He swept the masks aside and found a heavy silver hairbrush, its gleaming back stamped with a Fleur de Lis. A few long, coily red-brown hairs were still caught in the bristles. He picked it up and held it to his bare cheek, feeling a shock at the contrast between his flushing face and the cool metal. He caught a nearly imperceptible whiff of rosewater and sank to his knees, cradling the brush to his chest and roaring in his grief with a ferocity he thought had been lost to him forever, so numb had he been these last few months.</p><p>After several minutes that may as well have been an eon, Erik pulled himself off the floor and dried his face with a handkerchief. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and felt the weight of his forty seven years hit him all at once. He had spent the past two decades in a kind of desperate cycle: longing for Christine, vying for her, gaining her trust, and failing her. Now, that tumult was eclipsed by the shock of losing her so utterly and each day presented new confusion: how to go on now that he knew he would never see her again, that she would never be his.</p><p>He placed the brush tenderly back in the bedside drawer next to his sleeping masks, not certain he would ever be able to properly express his gratitude to Raoul for leaving it for him, and turned back to the rest of the room.</p><p>There was still much to do to make these rooms a home that would befit Christine's wishes for their son, and not long before the boy returned.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. In him, my wrongness is made right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bedtime stories.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Do you think Mother is with the angels?”</p><p>The question came in that way parents the world over know to expect: just before the final goodnights are said and the lights turned out. But to Erik, who was not yet fully accustomed to bedtimes, it landed like an unexpected punch to the solar plexus. </p><p>“If there are angels, then your mother is surely queen of them all,” he answered through the knot in his throat.</p><p>“That’s how I imagine her,” said Gustave with a yawn. “I can hear her singing. Can you?”</p><p>“I wish I could.” Try as he might, he had not been able to conjure the sound of her voice in his mind since the afternoon he’d played the duet she wrote for them.</p><p>“I hear her all the time,” Gustave said, tugging his own earlobe in that disarming way he did at bedtime. “Whenever I see something beautiful or strange, anything that makes me feel something, I can hear her."</p><p>Curiosity and envy fought a brief battle in Erik’s mind, but curiosity swiftly won and so he kept the conversation going although it was long past the time Raoul had said Gustave should be asleep.</p><p>“Do you often experience things that aren’t empirically there?”</p><p>“What does ‘empirically’ mean?”</p><p>“It means things that can be verified by other people. Things you can measure. Things you can know concretely.”</p><p>“Oh,” replied Gustave, now tugging on his other ear. “Sometimes I see beautiful lights when I sing or play the piano.”</p><p>Erik beamed, though he wasn’t sure Gustave could see him in the low light of the bedroom. “I see them too.”</p><p>“You do?” asked Gustave. “Did you see them when you were my age?”</p><p>“I’ve seen them for as long as I can remember.” Erik didn’t tell him that his first experiences of this phenomenon had been the color of a fresh cut from the lash and the smell of mockery, or that it had taken him a long time to realize he could experience them in response to beauty as well as ugliness.</p><p>“We’re different from most people, aren’t we?” asked Gustave, now tapping his fingers absentmindedly on his cheek.</p><p>“We are,” Erik confirmed.</p><p>“Why do most people lie so much?” asked Gustave, after a thoughtful pause.</p><p>“Other people expect them to.”</p><p>“That’s so silly!” said Gustave with a chuckle. “I’ve never met anyone else who understood how strange that was. Mother almost did. She was different, too. But not in the same way we are.”</p><p>Erik contemplated this for a moment.</p><p>“Your mother was the kindest and most honest person I have ever met. She was beautiful in a way that drew everyone to her, but she never lorded it over anyone. She saw my face and loved me anyway.”</p><p>“Mother always told me to look with my heart and not with my eyes.”</p><p>“She did?” Erik asked, trying to steady his voice, especially grateful for the dimness of the room.</p><p>“She said that she liked that I was different, but that I needed to be careful because other people might not.”</p><p>“Being different can be lonely sometimes, but it can also be a gift. It gives you a special insight into the world that other people don’t have."</p><p>“Do the people we saw today at the Museum of Human Curiosities have special insight too?”</p><p>“I suppose each of them does have a perspective that others don’t share,” replied Erik, now thinking of how best to turn the conversation back to bedtime.</p><p>“Father says that you were in a museum like that a long time ago.”</p><p>Again, that punch to the solar plexus.</p><p>“Does he now?”</p><p>“Is it true?”</p><p>Erik formulated a reply he felt would not trouble Gustave overmuch.</p><p>“It is true that I was in a museum a long time ago, but it was not like the one we saw today. The people in that museum work for me, just like the ticket takers and the carnival barkers do. When Phantasma closes, they go home to their families.” </p><p>“You didn’t go home to your family?”</p><p>“No."</p><p>“Is… is that what you meant when you said that Mother’s voice made you forget all the suffering of your life?”</p><p>Erik did not wish to cry openly in front of Gustave, but his heart was too full of weeping and his voice quavered as he said, “yes. Your mother made me forget those troubles for awhile. It was one of the many reasons why loved her.”</p><p>“Father says that’s how... how you came to be my father. He says you and Mother loved each other, but I don’t understand. Father and Mother loved each other too, so why are you my father?”</p><p>It was clear to Erik that Gustave was terribly confused, but he did not think Raoul would be especially pleased to learn that he had explained without his input.</p><p>“It is true that your mother and I,” he cleared his throat, “loved each other. And that is how you came to be. That was before...” he broke off and gathered his thoughts.</p><p>“This is a matter best discussed the three of us,” he finally said. “I promise that everything will be made clear to you in time. Now, it really is past time for bed.”</p><p>He moved to turn out the lights.</p><p>“If you are my real father, should I call you Father too?”</p><p>“That might be confusing. I believe your mother called her father ‘Papa,’ did she not?”</p><p>Gustave nodded solemnly. “May I call you Papa Erik?”</p><p>Erik felt as though his heart would burst. How he had ever come to deserve this child’s acceptance, his goodness, was beyond him.</p><p>“Yes,” he said.</p><p>“Goodnight, Papa Erik.”</p><p>“Goodnight... Son.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have always read Erik as autistic and prone to synesthesia because of the way he describes music throughout both shows. Gustave seems to have inherited these traits.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Look at your face in the mirror</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gustave gets a biology lesson. Raoul and Erik reflect.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Gustave asked me a curious question the other night.”</p><p>Erik had arrived uptown early for Gustave’s piano lesson and was waiting awkwardly in Raoul’s sitting room. It mattered little that he was paying for the apartment, and for Gustave’s school, and providing a handsome stipend for them both to live on. Raoul, ever the nobleman, had a way of expanding his presence to fit the available space, and Erik was surprised at how out of place he felt here.</p><p>“Oh?” Raoul replied, rifling stiffly through some papers on his desk. Erik noted the absence of Raoul's customary glass of brandy and wondered if that was why the man was so tense. </p><p>He wavered momentarily. His motivation for all things had lately narrowed to a single focal point: not doing anything that might give Raoul reason to deny him a relationship with his son. In his youth, he would have simply seized the boy, seated him at his right hand, and defied Raoul to do anything about it; but the impulse to make demands or simply take what he wanted was somehow muted now. It was almost as if Christine was standing behind him, just out of sight, staying his hand.</p><p>“Well?” Raoul demanded, “what did he ask you?”</p><p>Erik shook his head and looked up. “He wanted to know how I came to be his father. He seems to be confused. Has he asked you anything?”</p><p>Raoul sighed and looked up from his papers, “no. But I’m not surprised he asked you first. He’s been making such a show of loyalty to me. I imagine he’s trying not to upset me.” </p><p>“I told him that we needed to discuss it the three of us. I… I wanted to talk to you first.”</p><p>Raoul was taken aback. This was not the first time since Christine’s death that this odd man had surprised him. Gone was the creature who lurked beneath the floorboards and emerged only to devour whatever he desired. Raoul wasn’t certain yet what had taken his place, but his skepticism was warming into respectful curiosity. </p><p>He sighed and sank into the leather armchair next to the window, wishing for a brandy. Christine had been asking him for years not to drink so much and he didn’t know any other way to stop than all at once. It was proving extremely difficult, but in the absence of drink he could almost feel her beside him, helping him to see the path forward more clearly.</p><p>He turned and fixed the older man with his eyes before remembering what Erik had told him about not liking to look other people in the eye, so he turned to the window and looked out onto the park across the street instead.</p><p>“I don’t think he has any idea about how any of it works. I don’t know what Christine told him, but I certainly didn’t give him any kind of talk. I thought I might explain things to him when he was a few years older; maybe take him to a brothel once he became interested in that sort of thing.”</p><p>Erik’s stomach sank at this. The idea of Raoul visiting a brothel to enjoy some cheap imitation when he had Christine at home seemed absurd to him. But then that was what men of Raoul’s class did, wasn’t it?</p><p>Raoul mistook Erik’s discomfort for modesty. “Oh come now. Surely you’ve visited such an establishment a time or two in your life."</p><p>“The night I was with...” he saw the younger man’s brow furrow and recalculated. “The night Gustave was conceived was the first time... and the only time."</p><p>This truly did shock Raoul. Ten years ago, as their drama at the Opera Populaire unfolded, he had imagined the so-called Phantom to be a Lothario of the worst echelon. “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t been with anyone since?”</p><p>“There is nobody for me but her.”</p><p>"Then why did you leave her?”</p><p>Erik gestured towards his mask. “All my life, anyone who has seen <em>this</em> has shunned me. Christine was the first person to look on me with anything other than revulsion. But I had thought her gone, happily engaged to you. When she returned, when we… it was like a dream. But in the morning, all I could think of was the kind of life I would be condemning her to. I am not an easy man to live with, deformity or not. I did not wish to inflict myself upon her.”</p><p>“So instead you left her alone and naked on a rooftop?” At the older man’s expression of shock. “Yes, Madame Giry told me everything.”</p><p>“I am not proud of it, Raoul. I have no defense for the indefensible."</p><p>Raoul was searching for some fitting response when the clock chimed three o’clock. Gustave would be home soon and they still were not agreed on how to explain things to him.</p><p>“Perhaps I will tell him the rudiments and then you can tell him, tastefully, about what happened between you and Christine.”</p><p>“I think that would be best."</p><p>~~~~</p><p>After Gustave’s piano lesson, they had a surprisingly pleasant dinner during which the boy regaled both men with every detail of his physics and astronomy lessons. He asked if he could have a telescope and Erik readily agreed, eager to encourage the boy to drill down as deeply as he wanted to in any subject that interested him.</p><p>“Gustave,” said Raoul, segueing with his natural grace. “Erik and I need to talk with you about an issue of… biology.”</p><p>Erik marveled at the younger man’s skill in directing a conversation. Where had he learned to manage people without them even realizing they were being managed?</p><p>“Please tell me!” Gustave’s response was all Christine. Erik saw her natural curiosity peering out from behind his eyes and his heart swelled with love for the boy.</p><p>“Well,” said Raoul, hazarding a glance at Erik and noting Erik’s consenting nod, “your Papa Erik tells me you asked how he came to be your father.”</p><p>Gustave looked a little guilty. “I’m sorry, Father.”</p><p>“You have nothing to apologize for,” replied Raoul. “It is I who should be apologizing to you. I never explained certain… certain details to you. Normally I wouldn’t have done for a few more years, but under the circumstances, it’s best that you understand. You see, after a man and a woman are married, they become close in a new way. They join their bodies together, and sometimes this joining can make a baby.”</p><p>“So… you and mother joined your bodies together after you got married?”</p><p>“Yes,” Raoul replied.</p><p>“And is that how I was made?”</p><p>“No,” Raoul said, trying and failing to keep a note of bitterness out of his voice.</p><p>Erik took over quickly, “before your mother and father were married, your mother and I were also very close. We joined our bodies together and we made you.”</p><p>“But you weren’t married?”</p><p>“No. People have always been frightened by my face, and I was afraid that if I married her, she would also be shunned." </p><p>“And then Father married her.”</p><p>“That’s right.”</p><p>Gustave puzzled over this, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the base of his skull before saying, “so then… you’re both my father."</p><p>Raoul realized he had been holding his breath for the entirety of Erik’s exchange with Gustave. He felt certain that his son would see him for a cuckold and lose respect for him and choose to leave with Erik at once, but Gustave had his mother’s goodness. These notions did not so much as cross his mind. </p><p>Raoul found a laugh bubbling up from his chest and realized that Erik too was chuckling.</p><p>“That’s right, son,” he said. “That’s exactly right."</p><p>~~~~</p><p>Too soon, the clock chimed eight and Raoul told Gustave to get ready for bed. Gustave hugged Erik with heartwarming enthusiasm and disappeared down the hallway towards the bedrooms.</p><p>Raoul turned to Erik, “if you do not have another engagement, will you stay while I get him settled in? There’s one more matter I would speak with you about before you go."</p><p>Erik nodded and sat in the leather armchair overlooking the park. He was glad Gustave and Raoul were getting his money’s worth. This was a good place for a child to grow up.</p><p>Raoul returned shortly and said, “I’m beginning to believe that you are not the man I thought you were.”</p><p>“What sort of man did you think I was?”</p><p>“A monster. An animal. A devourer of women. I did not understand what Christine meant to you.”</p><p>“You weren’t wrong.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“I am a monster, and I have loathed myself for it as long as I can remember. And whether or not I intended it, I did devour Christine.”</p><p>“You weren’t alone in that,” Raoul replied, sinking onto the sofa opposite the big window.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Devil take the hindmost,” Raoul said, raking his fingers ruefully through his hair.</p><p>A long silence descended, and both men shared its stillness with the only other wretch on the planet who knew this particular species of regret.</p><p>Finally, Raoul spoke again. “I wanted you to stay tonight because I had hoped we could discuss Mademoiselle Giry.”</p><p>“What about her?” Erik’s voice was icy.</p><p>“Her trial is in six weeks,” said Raoul. “We shall all be called to testify.”</p><p>“And you hoped I might take pity on the poor murdering bitch?”</p><p>This was not going as Raoul had planned. Clearly he had underestimated Erik’s need for someone besides himself to blame. He searched for another tack and finally said, “you may never have visited a brothel before, Erik, but you certainly ran one for a time."</p><p>“I beg your pardon?” there was a dangerous edge to Erik’s voice now with something of the old Opera Ghost creeping in around the edges. </p><p>“How many men do you think Meg lay with in the first two years you were in America?”</p><p>“I didn’t inquire.”</p><p>“One hundred and twenty seven,” said Raoul, “Regulators. Investors. Reporters. Politicians. Madame Giry kept a careful record in case blackmail would be required at a later date. "</p><p>Erik’s mind reeled a little at the number. “I had no idea it was so many.”</p><p>“Would Phantasma exist if she hadn’t?”</p><p>Erik paused for a long time, looking for some way out of the truth staring him in the face.</p><p>“No,” he finally said. “It wouldn’t.”</p><p>"You say you’ve loathed yourself your whole life. How do you think Meg feels having been with so many men for your sake, only to be so thoroughly disregarded by you?”</p><p>Erik was silent for a long time and Raoul thought he must be formulating some defense for himself, but then he heard the older man sob and he pressed his advantage.</p><p>“We both know Meg wasn’t in her right mind that night. The only person she meant to hurt was herself. She certainly didn’t mean to hurt Christine."</p><p>When Erik spoke at last, it was only two words. “I’ll testify."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am a fervent proponent of sex workers' rights. Sex work is work and sex workers do not need to be rescued. </p><p>There are times, however, where coercion of one flavor or another enters the equation and that can result in incalculable trauma. Meg's entrance into this line of work appears to have fallen under that rubric.</p><p>I am also attempting to reflect the values of the time as opposed to my own.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Notes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Four letters</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>9 September, 1905</p><p>My Dear Vicomte,</p><p>I have no idea what you said to him, but it appears to have made an impression. Meg showed me his letter when I visited her today and she seemed better to me than she has in awhile.</p><p>Nevertheless, I continue to fear for her sanity in that awful place. Let us pray that this ordeal comes to a swift conclusion at trial. I thank you for continuing to pay for Meg's attorneys. We simply could not have managed without you.</p><p>Yours in gratitude,<br/>Madame M. Giry</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>1 November, 1905</p><p>Dear Erik,</p><p>Meg’s attorneys have sent me their final bill. I enclose it here and thank you once again for your offer to make the final payment towards her defense.</p><p>Your testimony was moving. I imagine it was difficult for you. I believe that Christine would have been proud of you and grateful that Meg is now free, at least in body.</p><p>I trust we can expect you for Gustave’s piano lesson on Thursday.</p><p>Sincerely,<br/>Raoul</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>12 November, 1905</p><p>Dear Madame Giry,</p><p>This is to confirm, as you discussed with management, that you and your daughter Marguerite will remain on payroll at Phantasma but will have no day-to-day duties on an indefinite basis. We wish you luck in your travels North and hope that someday you both will bring your artistry back to our stage.</p><p>Please send us a forwarding address when you settle.</p><p>Best,<br/>Kazuhiro Tanaka<br/>Assistant to Mr. Y<br/>Phantasma Inc.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>December 14, 1905</p><p>Dear Mr. de Chagny,</p><p>Thank you for your inquiry. I would not normally include someone of your age in my classes but I was most impressed by your essay and the accompanying letter from your science faculty.</p><p>You will therefore be most welcome to take our Physics 101 class by correspondence in the Spring Semester. I look forward to working with you.</p><p>Sincerely,<br/>Professor William Magie<br/>Department of Physics<br/>Princeton University</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Here, another note</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A letter</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1 September, 1905</p><p>Dear Meg,</p><p>I have begun this letter more times than I can count, but each time I have failed to properly finish it because I do not know the words, in any language, to convey the scale of my regret. </p><p>You made sacrifices for my sake that I never could have imagined, and I disregarded you.</p><p>You graced my stage and brought my audiences to their feet with your tremendous talents, and I overlooked you.</p><p>Phantasma would not exist without you, and I never so much as thanked you.</p><p>You deserve far better than I have ever been able to offer you.</p><p>I have spent much of the past several months blaming you for Christine’s death because I could not bear to look in the mirror and see that it was my solipsism that created the circumstances in which she perished.</p><p>I no longer blame you and I vow to say as much at your trial.</p><p>I hope that someday you will find it within your heart to forgive me.</p><p>Yours in deepest regret,<br/>Erik</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. All that you dreamed I could</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik opens a new enterprise. Gustave gets permission to grow up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Well, what do you think?” Erik asked Gustave, who was staring, somewhat thunderstruck, at the lavish array of peacock feathers and bunting surrounding the life-sized portrait of Mother that stood before him.</p><p>Gustave had never seen anything so garish in all of his fifteen years. He knew that Papa would be upset if he said this out loud, but he hated lying so he practiced a skill he had lately begun thinking of as “telling a different truth.”</p><p>“I think Mother would be touched that you kept the set all these years and… is this painting your work? She looks beautiful.”</p><p>“Thank you, son,” Erik put his hand on Gustave’s shoulder, now as high as his own. These physical displays of affection had come slowly between them and it warmed him that Gustave did not pull away now, as most boys his age would have done.</p><p>“Are you ready for the concert tomorrow?”</p><p>Gustave sighed. He was more than ready. He had practiced Mother’s piano concerto until he could have played it note for note in his sleep. He wished, not for the first time today, that Papa was not quite so much of a task master about music. He was supportive of Gustave’s ongoing correspondence studies at Princeton in physics and mathematics, but only so long as he kept up with his studies of voice and piano at home.</p><p>He did not wish to broach any of this with Papa now, so instead he raised the other question that had been concerning him of late, “will Miss Astor be accompanying Father, do you think?”</p><p>Emily Astor had, of late, become Raoul’s constant companion. The society papers were all atwitter with engagement rumors, not that Gustave read such rubbish.</p><p>“It seems likely,” replied Erik. “Does that upset you?”</p><p>“It shouldn’t.” Gustave’s voice cracked slightly, his high soprano having only recently deepened into a warm, steady tenor.</p><p>“Nonsense,” said Erik.</p><p>“It's been five years, Papa. Father deserves to be happy. I just can’t help but feel…”</p><p>“Like she’s being replaced?” Erik asked, finishing his son’s sentence.</p><p>“Exactly,” replied Gustave, looking down at a spot on the floor.</p><p>“Impossible.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“In two days time, this conservatory will open to its first class of students, some of the finest young musicians in America. Generations of young women will come here to study her music, and to learn to compose their own. Christine's voice may have made her famous, but her music has made her immortal. She cannot be replaced.”</p><p>Gustave hadn’t realized until that moment what a weight had been pressing down on him and he choked back tears.</p><p>Erik threw an arm over his son’s shoulder. “Do you still hear her singing?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” Gustave said. “But not like when I was a child.” He paused, twisting the words inside his heart this way and that, trying to find a way to make them fit. Finally he said, “Papa, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Professor Magie has invited me to begin studying full time at Princeton in the fall.”</p><p>“And you wish to go?”</p><p>“They have an excellent music program there as well,” he added quickly. “It’s not far. I can come home on the weekends and for holidays. We can still play together almost as often as we do now. I haven’t discussed this with Father yet, I wanted to talk to you first.”</p><p>Erik felt as though someone had plunged a dagger between his ribs. This boy, this… man who had only just come into his life was ready to strike out on his own already. To be free of his Papa Erik and his music. The last traces of his Christine, leaving him at last.</p><p>“I won’t go if you don’t want me to.” Gustave’s voice was small now, almost like a child's, and the head of steam that Erik had been building up dissipated, only to be replaced by a tight, hard knot in his throat.</p><p>“No, of course you should go," he said. "Although, I am concerned about you living in a dormitory with young men so much older than yourself.”</p><p>“I won’t be!” said Gustave, now fluttering his hands in excitement. “Professor Magie said that, given my age, his wife has agreed that I should board with them and their children."</p><p>“Then I shall have to meet this Professor Magie and ensure that he is the sort of person I want my son associating with,” replied Erik in mock protectiveness. He found such joy in Gustave’s happiness, and in the way Christine radiated through him when he smiled. “Now, let’s go and test the piano in the concert hall. We must ensure the tuner had done his job correctly.”</p><p>“Yes, Papa,” replied Gustave, feeling as though he had been given wings.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Your future bride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Letters from the spring of 1911</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>April 4, 1911</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>My heartiest congratulations on your engagement to Miss Astor. As you know, I think very highly of her. I wish you both nothing but happiness.</p><p>It is my honor to accept your invitation to serve as your best man. I shall do my utmost to ensure that your wedding day is everything you wish for.</p><p>I wonder if I might be allowed to invite Kathryn Magie to the wedding. I’m not certain that she will accept, but she has given me reason to hope.</p><p>All my love,<br/>
Gustave</p><p>PS: If you have any advice about how I might go about asking her, please do share it. Papa doesn’t have the faintest idea of how to talk to girls.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>10 May, 2011</p><p>Dear Raoul,</p><p>I must say I was surprised to receive an invitation to your wedding after our last conversation. I feel that I owe you an apology for my behavior. If I harbor any anger towards you, it is only because I envy your ability to move on with your life. You deserve happiness and if Miss Astor makes you happy, then of course you should marry her.</p><p>Have you heard about Gustave’s new sweetheart yet? He tells me she has accepted his invitation to accompany him to your wedding. The way he writes about her takes me back to the day I realized I felt more for Christine than a teacher might normally feel for his pupil. It all seems so long ago.</p><p>I look forward to meeting your future bride when next we see one another.</p><p>Sincerely,<br/>
Erik</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>12 May 1911</p><p>My Dear Vicomte,</p><p>How lovely it was to receive your wedding invitation! Meg and I are both very happy for you and Miss Astor and very grateful to be included. Sadly, we will be unable to attend. Meg is not well enough to travel and I do not like to leave her alone here for too long.</p><p>We are, however, enclosing a small wedding present. Meg painted this sunset off the North Shore a few weeks ago. She very much wants you to have it.</p><p>Your friends,<br/>
Minette and Meg Giry</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. She'll always be there, singing songs in my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gustave dodges a bullet</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>REPORT OF MEDICAL SURVEY</strong>
</p><p><strong>Place:</strong> US Naval Hospital, Newport, Rhode Island  Date: July 20, 1917</p><p><strong>Name:</strong> de Chagny, Gustave Ange      <br/><strong>Rank or rate:</strong> Apprentice Seaman<br/><strong>Born:</strong> Paris, France, November 4, 1895<br/><strong>Enlisted or appointed:</strong> July 3, 1917, New York, NY<br/><strong>Total service:</strong> Navy: 1 week </p><p>———</p><p>PRESENT HISTORY OF CASE</p><p>Admitted from U.S. Naval Hospital, Newport Rhode Island  Date: July 14, 1917<br/>Diagnosis: Dementia Praecox  #1509</p><p>Disability <span class="u">is not</span> the result of his own misconduct and <span class="u">was not</span> incurred in line of duty.<br/>Existed prior to enlistment: yes<br/>If “yes,” was condition aggravated by service? no<br/>Present condition: unfit for service<br/>Probable future duration: permanent</p><p><strong>Recommendation:</strong> That he be discharged from military service and remanded to the custody of his family.</p><p><strong>Facts are as follows:</strong> This patient is a conscript, having 22 years of age and one week of active training duty prior to admission to the sick list. At recruit examination, he was recognized as being sufficiently abnormal to warrant trial duty status. Within the first week of trial duty, this patient’s commanding officer and fellow conscripts reported that he exhibited stereotyped behaviors and became severely distressed upon hearing sounds of routine ship maintenance. At this hospital, he exhibits stereotyped hand movements and asocial behavior. Upon inquiry, patient disclosed to his physician that he hears his deceased mother singing on a near-constant basis. On July 23, 1917, the diagnosis Dementia Praecox #1509 was established. It is the considered opinion of this Board of Medical Survey that this patient suffers from Dementia Praecox and recommends that he be discharged from military service and remanded to the custody of his family.</p><p>The purpose, findings, and recommendations of this Board were fully explained to the patient.</p><p>L.M. Jorgenson<br/>Lt. Commander NC-V(S)<br/>Reserve, US Navy</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Autistics generally don't do well in the military and most of us consider that a compliment.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Meg says goodbye</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: suicide</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>9 October, 1922</p><p>Dear Erik,</p><p>Thank you for your kind letter to Maman. I read it to her before she went. I think you said what she needed to hear because she was much more peaceful afterwards.</p><p>Now that she is gone, I am uncertain what to do. Prince Edward Island has become my home, but without her here the house is so empty and cold. The only time I truly feel like myself is when I am swimming. The water here is excruciatingly cold this time of year, but somehow I manage to brave it anyway. There are days when I swim out just a little farther than I think I can make it back, but then I always find my way home. I suppose tempting fate has become something of a sickness with me lately.</p><p>I have been meaning for some time to tell you that I do forgive you. Even with thousands of miles of ocean between us, Christine was still the brightest star in the heavens. You were blinded by that light, as was I. Christine was more to me than a friend, or even a sister. I loved her as you did.</p><p>Even now, I cannot forgive myself for what I did to her. You were correct when you wrote that you created the circumstances in which she perished, but mine will always be the hand that held the gun. The way she looked at me as she fell will be seared into my memory for the rest of my life, however long that may be.</p><p>Please take good care of Gustave. I imagine nothing would have given Christine greater joy than to see how close you two have become.</p><p>Yours,<br/>
Meg</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If you or someone you know is considering suicide, help is available at these numbers: https://www.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Help me say goodbye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Erik and Raoul part company.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I hate goodbyes,” Gustave huffed from behind his desk, where he had been absorbed with calculations and notes for most of the last twelve hours. “I always get the rituals wrong.”</p><p>Kathryn plunked down on the sofa in his office and said, “Gustave, my love, I imagine that it would be important to your father and Emily that we all come and see them off. It doesn't matter to anyone if you get the rituals right. They just want to see you.”</p><p>“Very well,” he said, “if you want me to do it, I’ll do it.”</p><p>“I want you do to it.”</p><p>And so it was that Gustave, a heavily-pregnant Kathryn, and their five year-old daughter Christine made their way from Princeton into Manhattan, and down to Pier 15 where the Atlantic Queen was moored.</p><p>Erik arrived shortly after they did, hardly even flinching at the stares and whispers of passers-by. Together, the little group made their way through a throng of passengers and families until they finally spied Raoul and Emily, who were paying the porters.</p><p>“Gustave!” Raoul exclaimed, pulling his son into a somewhat awkward embrace and clapping him on the back. “I wasn’t certain you would come. I know how you dislike these things.”</p><p>“Kathryn talked me into it,” said Gustave, his eyes on the sparkle of sunlight on the water.</p><p>“Are you going away forever Pépère?” asked Christine, holding up up a dandelion she had picked at the top of the quay.</p><p>“No sweetness,” replied Raoul, crouching down to accept her gift with both hands. “But now we've rebuilt from that beastly war, I want to show Emily the place I grew up. Someday, I will take you there as well."</p><p>“Gustave,” asked Emily, “what should I see while we’re in Paris?”</p><p>“I haven’t been there since I was ten, but if you like candies, the confiserie two blocks from our old house makes the perfect lavender chocolates,” said Gustave. “They taste like starlight."</p><p>Emily giggled. Raoul's son was strange, but very dear. “I promise I won’t miss it.”</p><p>The great horn of the Atlantic Queen blew then, and Raoul looked up. “It seems we’re due onboard, my dear.”</p><p>As the rest of the little group exchanged their final embraces, Erik and Raoul stood awkwardly across from one another.</p><p>“Thank you,” Raoul finally said, breaking the silence.</p><p>“For what?” asked Erik.</p><p>“You could have declared war on me from the very start. You probably would have won. But you didn’t, and I never would have imagined that you, of all people, could become like family to me.”</p><p>“Nor I you.”</p><p>It was impossible to know who made the first move; but after another awkward second, the two men reached forward and embraced like long-lost brothers.</p><p>The horn blew again and Emily touched her husband’s shoulder gently. “We really must be going dear.”</p><p>The two men released one another. Raoul dried his eyes, looked around at the little group again, and then hastily followed Emily up the gangplank.</p><p>“Did I do alright?” Gustave asked Kathryn.</p><p>“You did beautifully,” she said, surreptitiously slipping Erik her handkerchief.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Look with your heart and not with your eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Selected entries from the diary of Kathryn Magie<br/>April 1910 - August 1911</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>April 2, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>I am resolved to be a spinster. I overheard Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Abernathy talking in the church basement during the Sunday picnic. Mrs. Williams said it was a pity that I got my mother’s hair and my father’s build and not the other way around, and Mrs. Abernathy said it was all but certain that no boy would ever want me with my eyes all squinted up from reading. Their remarks stung a bit at first, but upon reflection I think that spinsters have the most interesting lives and I will strive to be the best one I can be. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>September 3, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>I think I’m in love and I hate it. Father told us that a French boy from a nice family would be coming to live with us because he was a physics prodigy but too young to live in the dormitories with the rest of the students. I imagined he might be interesting, but I didn’t expect him to be so handsome! He has the most beautiful dark hair and creamy pale skin and oh his eyes!</p>
<p>Of course he can barely look at me. He’s very quiet altogether except when he and Father are talking about physics. I can follow some of the elementary stuff but they get above my head pretty fast. </p>
<p>I hope I stop feeling this swooping in my stomach every time I see him. It’s very disconcerting.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>September 24, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>Gustave doesn’t go to church and so I told Mother that I wouldn’t be going tomorrow either. Maybe Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Abernathy will find something else to talk about.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>September 25, 1910 </strong>
</p>
<p>This morning, I was out on the back porch reading when I heard Gustave playing Mother’s old piano. He stopped rather abruptly, I imagine upon finding it so badly out of tune, but then a few minutes later he came out on the porch and actually spoke to me. </p>
<p>It was nice to talk with him, even if he wouldn’t look at me and all he wanted was to know where Father keeps his tools. He spent several hours with the piano lid open now the piano sounds marvelous. I asked him how he did it without a tuning fork and he told me he has perfect pitch.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>October 1, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>I haven’t seen much of G the last few days. He’s been very busy with Father, and Mother has me running errands for the church bazar. She says I still have to help fill the poor box even if I don’t attend services anymore. I don’t mind really, though I do miss listening to him play. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>November 3, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>Sorry I haven’t written in awhile. Not much to report until today. G actually looked at me at breakfast! It was only for a moment and then he looked away again. I don’t blame him. I know I’m not very pretty. I’m just glad we get to be friends.</p>
<p>It was thrilling to feel his eyes on me though. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>December 15, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>Mrs. Drexel told me I placed first in every subject at school this term. I told G and he shook my hand. He’s so queer! After dinner, we went into the parlor and he played the piano and I read and it was the most marvelous time. I wish it could go on forever like this, but G has to go home to his family in New York for Christmas. He left a note in my coat pocket with an address on Coney Island and told me to write to him. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>December 25, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>I am writing my letter to Gustave here as practice first.</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Dear Gustave,</p>
  <p>Merry Christmas! There isn’t much to report here other than that Father has a cold and behaves as though he is dying. Mother has her hands full with Charlotte, who thinks she knows absolutely everything these days. I’ve been reading a very sweet serial in The American Magazine. It’s about a little girl who comes to a big old house in England after her parents die of cholera in India and she starts learning about nature. It’s called “The Secret Garden,” and I’m enclosing the first chapter. I hope you like it.</p>
</blockquote><p>But how to sign it? Love? Yours? Sincerely? Your friend?</p>
<p>I hate this!</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>December 30, 1910</strong>
</p>
<p>G wrote! He loved the first chapter of “The Secret Garden” and hopes we can read the second chapter together when he returns!</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>January 10, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>G is back! Mother said she wasn’t sure if he’d be boarding with us again or if he would join an eating club now he’s sixteen, but apparently his father insisted that he come back to stay with us. He played the piano again tonight and then I read him chapter two of “The Secret Garden.” He sat on the sofa and closed his eyes. Afterwards, he said he liked the sound of my voice and the way the words just “poured over” him. I don’t know if I should tell him how fast my heart beats when he says things like that.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>February 14, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>This morning, I found a printed Valentine in my coat pocket from Gustave! He wrote, “Dear Kathryn, I find myself quite at peace in your company. Yours affectionately, Gustave.”</p>
<p>I don’t know what to make of it! It is a Valentine but “quite at peace” seems very much in opposition to what I feel when I’m around him - as though I could climb the wall from wanting to brush his hair out of his face.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>March 1, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>Not much to write. School an absolute bore. I keep finishing everything before everyone else and Mrs. Drexel doesn’t know what to do with me. Charlotte is a beast. She stole my hairbrush again this morning and I had to dig around in her messy little trunk to find it. </p>
<p>G very busy with school. We don’t talk much these days.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>April 13, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>I am in raptures! G left a note in my pocket this morning asking if we could take a walk after dinner tonight. I spent the whole day wondering what he wanted to talk about and Mrs. Drexel got very cranky with me when she realized I wasn’t paying attention. </p>
<p>We walked through campus with the cherry trees in bloom and he told me that his father was getting remarried in June. I realized that I hadn’t asked him a great deal about his family and felt that I should have, which led to a long and very awkward silence. I finally asked him what had happened to his mother and he told me that she died six years ago.</p>
<p>I prattled on for a time about how sorry I was that he’d been through that and then he stopped me. He said that he had something to ask me and that he needed to just say it or he’d never be able to get the words out. And then he asked me if he could have the honor of escorting me to the wedding as his guest. </p>
<p>Maybe he does feel something of what I do, although I cannot imagine how.</p>
<p>I hope Mother will let me go.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>May 6, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>G and I went walking again tonight and he held my hand! He’s very busy at school, but tries to make time for us to go for a walk together or sit in the parlor at least once a week.</p>
<p>Mother says she approves of this as long as I’m still getting my schoolwork done, and there’s a new household rule that G isn’t allowed upstairs anymore.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>May 14, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>Finally got up the courage to ask G the question that has been burning a hole in my mind: why does he care for me when he is so much better looking than I am?</p>
<p>He laughed out loud and said that he liked to look with his heart, and not with his eyes. He said I'm a good deal better looking than I think I am and that I have the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>June 25, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>What a heavenly day! The wedding mass was at the Basilica of St. Patrick’s and the reception was at his father’s club in Manhattan. The bride was some kind of heiress or socialite. Her dress was stunning and the flowers were really spectacular! The whole room smelled of gardenias.</p>
<p>At the reception, G was seated at the high table and I was seated next to a man who wore a mask over half his face and a fedora, even indoors in the middle of summer. Gustave introduced him to me as Papa Erik, an old friend of the family. I tried to talk to him, but he seemed so out of place and uncomfortable and he left early. I asked Gustave about it on the drive home.</p>
<p>He became very quiet for a time and then asked me - scandalous! - if I knew how women came to be with child. I said that Mother had explained it to me but that it might not be an appropriate topic for us to discuss. He apologized profusely which made me even more uncomfortable, and then he told me that the man we just saw married was not his biological father. Apparently his mother was a famous opera singer in Europe and she fell in love with two men at the same time. One was the man we saw married today. The other was Erik, the man in the mask. She was with Erik before her wedding day and that’s how G was conceived. </p>
<p>It’s all so very French.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>August 1, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>G wrote to ask if the whole family would be his guests at Papa Erik's amusement park on Coney Island. Charlotte is nearly demented with glee at the prospect. Father has a great deal of work to do but Mother says it will be good for all of us to get out and enjoy the sea air.</p>
<p>I wonder what she will make of Papa Erik. I hope to get to know him a bit better on this trip.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>August 16, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>Phantasma is phan-tastic! Apparently, PE appreciates a good pun as much as I do. He said I wasn’t the first person to think of that one, but chuckled nonetheless and told me that a good pun was the highest form of humor. G rolled his eyes at us both but he grinned while he was doing so. </p>
<p>Mother thinks PE to be quite an ominous character, always masked and covered up - but I don’t agree. I think G is right to say that one should look with their heart and not with their eyes. When my heart looks at PE, I see someone who has suffered greatly but still manages to walk upright and make something of his life. He clearly adores G and is quick to offer him anything he needs.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>August 17, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>After we saw all the attractions today, PE gave us a private concert in his suite. He sang an aria and G accompanied him on the piano. Charlotte fidgeted but Mother and Father were both moved to tears. Then PE played us several selections on the violin and on the piano as well. Mother seems much less frightened by him now.</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <strong>August 18, 1911</strong>
</p>
<p>PE told me today that he’s very glad G met me, and rather than being gracious I blurted out a truly embarrassing question about his face. (I don’t know what comes over me sometimes, I always say what’s on my mind even if it’s not polite and I must resolve to do better.)</p>
<p>I was worried that I’d offended him at first, but then he chuckled and told me that he’d been born that way. He said G got his good looks from his mother and he showed me a portrait of her that he carries with him in his wallet. It’s true! G looks exactly like her. </p>
<p>I asked him if he’d loved her terribly much and he said, and I quote, “she was the only woman who has ever seen past my ugliness. Every note she sang was like a voice from Heaven, if there is such a place. There will never be anyone else for me.” I committed it to memory almost at once because it was the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.</p>
<p>I told him that I thought G was probably the only man who would see past my ugliness and then he really laughed in earnest. </p>
<p>I like PE. I think we’re going to get along splendidly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Why should I make her pay for the sins which are yours?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Christmas, 1933</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Gustave, I do wish you would write those themes down. Some of them deserve to be fleshed out,” Erik mock-groused.</p><p>“Papa, I’m just improvising. It helps me think,” replied Gustave, casting an imploring look to Kathryn, who sat across the parlor immersed in a novel.</p><p>“Why don’t you write them down for him, Erik?” she teased, sliding her bookmark between the pages. “Or perhaps you’re working on something more important.” She got up and crossed the room to Gustave’s leather armchair, where Erik had ensconced himself with a glass of burgundy, a charcoal set, and his sketchbook.</p><p>“Well? May I see what you’ve been up to all day?”</p><p>Erik’s eyes crinkled a little and he shrugged as if to say, “I surrender,” before handing the sketchbook to Kathryn, who promptly exclaimed over his intricately detailed sketch of little Christine - though at fifteen she chafed at the diminutive - and ten year-old René at the piano.</p><p>“You even worked in the Christmas tree and the picture window with the snow,” she said. “Your papa is awfully clever, Gustave!"</p><p>“Careful love, he already thinks highly enough of himself.”</p><p>Erik guffawed and set the sketchbook aside. “Very well son,” he said, “this calls for a duel. En garde!”</p><p>Gustave put his hands up and stepped away from the piano. “Be my guest.”</p><p>Erik sat down and began playing at once, a progression of chords so swift and complex that Kathryn’s eyes could scarcely keep up with the movement of his septuagenerian fingers.</p><p>He stood and Gustave sat, copying the phrase precisely and with very little effort.</p><p>“Well done!” Erik boomed. “You have kept up with it then.”</p><p>“Like I said, Papa, it helps me think.”</p><p>“Your turn.”</p><p>Gustave played a series of arpeggios in F Major which would have been entirely straightforward if not for a lattice of accidentals laced throughout like quicksand. </p><p>Erik sat down and copied him precisely, though he faltered perceptibly on a downbeat before throwing in the requisite A♭.</p><p>“You’re slowing down, old man,” said Gustave.</p><p>“You wound me, son,” scoffed Erik, before launching into something that Kathryn would not have strictly called music but knew better than to say so.</p><p>“It sounds like you two will be here for awhile,” she said, ready for some quiet. “Merry Christmas, boys.” </p><p>She gathered her novel, kissed Erik on the cheek, patted Gustave’s rear affectionately, and gathered her skirt to ascend the wooden stairs. By the time she arrived at the top, the piano was barely audible. Gustave had thoughtfully selected this house, so near her parents’, because it had enough space between the parlor and the rest of the house that his late night piano sessions would not wake anyone.</p><p>That was why it was especially shocking when, just as she set aside her book and turned out the light some time later, she heard voices raised in anger from below.</p><p>She hastened to the top of the stairs, thinking to go down and disrupt whatever spat had erupted between them, but she was stopped cold by a terrible edge in Erik’s voice that she had never heard before.</p><p>“Has the life we gave you been so insufficient? Have I not made every moment of my life a tribute to her memory? Why must you pursue this Jules Verne fantasy?”</p><p>Now Gustave was shouting and she could hear his voice choked with tears. “Papa, it’s not about any of that. It’s about her. You have said again and again that you hold yourself responsible for her death. What if she didn’t have to pay for your sins?”</p><p>“Be very careful how you speak,” Erik hissed before lapsing into rapid-fire French. Kathryn couldn’t quite keep up, but she did manage to pick up a few phrases; chiefly among them “l'amour de ma vie,” (the love of my life) and “mort depuis des décennies” (lost for decades).</p><p>Gustave’s French was somewhat less rapid-fire, but no less vehement. Kathryn was accustomed to practicing with him and could understand more. “She may have been the love of your life, Papa, but she was my mother and..."</p><p>Erik cut him off, speaking English once again with that terrifying hiss. “You have taken leave of your senses. You speak as if she were waiting for us to flip some magical switch!”</p><p>Kathryn could now hear heavy footfalls on the the floorboards nearest the door and she looked over the bannister as Erik seized his coat and hat and stormed into the night. </p><p>Gustave turned and looked up at her, tears in his eyes. “Did we wake the children?”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” she said, casting a look over her shoulder before hurrying down the stairs to hold him. “What was all that about?”</p><p>“It’s a sore subject between us,” he said, crossing into the kitchen, lighting the stove to boil water, snatching a thermos from the pantry. “I brought up something Dr. Einstein and I have been discussing and he didn’t like it very much.”</p><p>“That’s hardly the kind of reaction one usually gets from a discussion of theoretical physics, dear.”</p><p>Gustave gave her a sheepish look as the teapot whistled. “It’s not entirely theoretical, but I don’t have time to explain right now. I’m going to follow him and make sure he doesn’t catch his death.”</p><p>He filled the thermos with the hot water and two hastily-selected tea bags.</p><p>“Be certain you don’t catch yours while you’re out there,” she said, kissing his forehead. “I’ll wait up for you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. You were once a friend and father</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Letters, December 1933 - September 1934</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 29, 1933</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>Thank you for your letter. I had begun to worry.</p><p>I am not accustomed to the manner in which you write nowadays. It is ever so cryptic and strange and you know I do not do well with these sorts of metaphors. Kathryn does a little better, having read the Arsène Lupin novels to improve her French.</p><p>She has told me to say, “such good news from the belly of the ship. Please do bring a scarf with you on your voyage, as the fog can be very chilly."</p><p>I certainly hope you are better at reading between the lines than I am.</p><p>My love to Emily.</p><p>Your devoted son,<br/>
Gustave</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>31 January, 1934</p><p>Dear Son,</p><p>Please excuse my late reply. As you know, I have been traveling.</p><p>I’ve had a letter from Erik. It seems you two have had a dreadful row. If so, I truly hope you will work to repair things quickly. Such arguments, if left to fester, can poison a relationship and he does love you so.</p><p>I know you don’t do well with metaphor, but I am certain you understand the need for it in this case. I don’t mind saying plainly however that Herr Hitler and his thugs have us all very concerned, Emily in particular.</p><p>Please tell Kathryn that yes, the fog was very chilly but the trip was well worth it and our shipmates below decks are quite pleased. She’ll understand.</p><p>Happy new year!</p><p>Your loving father,<br/>
Raoul</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>February 16, 1934</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>Yes, it’s true that Papa and I have fought. He can’t grasp the theory I am proposing and doesn’t want to admit it. He has always been proud. I asked him on Christmas Night to meet with me and Dr. Einstein but he refused and now his letters vacillate between formality and a kind of frantic energy.</p><p>What troubles me most is that he says again and again that I must let Mother go but seems incapable of doing so himself. It is almost as though he feels that the small scrap of memory he guards so jealously is more important than the whole of her.</p><p>Kathryn says she’s pleased you had a good trip and that our friends feel it was worth your while. The news from Germany troubles us here as well. It seems that things are escalating rapidly.</p><p>Dr. Einstein asked me to express his warm regards to you, and to Emily.</p><p>All my love,<br/>
Gustave</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>29 April, 1934</p><p>Dear Son,</p><p>Please excuse my long silence. Much has happened here. We are thankfully well and are considering a return to New York soon, for Emily’s sake.</p><p>As for Erik, I fear your insight is not far off the mark. He was never able to let go of your mother, in life or in death. I don’t mind telling you, now that you’re older, that there were times when it seemed to me that he wished to possess her and keep her under glass, like a beautiful doll or a musical instrument. Perhaps he feels as though he has some small measure of that now.</p><p>I hope you will forgive me. I promised myself long ago that I would not speak ill of him to you, but you are older now and I hope you are able to understand. I believe Erik to be a good man at his core, but he is quite curled in on himself. I suspect he is covering wounds none of us can imagine. Try to be kind to him if you can. Perhaps set this particular piece of work with Dr. Einstein aside for a time.</p><p>We shall speak of this further when we return.</p><p>Your loving father,<br/>
Raoul</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>August 1, 1934</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>Now it is my turn to apologize for the long silence. Your letter did not arrive until mid-June and I have not had time to reply, as Papa and I have been much immersed in our project. I have you to thank, as your assessment was correct.</p><p>I asked Papa whether he’d rather have control of a tiny piece of her or to never have lost her at all. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, but in the end, he acquiesced.</p><p>I look forward to seeing you and Emily upon your return. We will all be relieved to have you here, safe and sound.</p><p>Love,<br/>
Gustave</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>August 13, 1934</p><p>Dear Father,</p><p>Please send word when you expect to arrive in New York. It does worry me when you are silent for so long.</p><p>Love,<br/>
Gustave</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>September 1, 1934</p><p>Dearest Gustave,</p><p>I know you like to speak plainly, so I won’t sugar coat anything: your father is dead. </p><p>You will be proud to know that he died a hero. He took a great risk for all of our sakes and ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. I shall tell you more when we speak in person.</p><p>I have but a few pieces of my own business to conclude in Paris. As the new Vicomte, it is your decision what is to become of Maison de Chagny and the properties in the countryside. I shall wait to hear from you before I conclude any business on Raoul’s behalf.</p><p>I know that I can never replace Christine, but please know that you are the closest thing I will ever have to a son and I love you with all my heart.</p><p>Your stepmother,<br/>
Emily</p><p>PS: Please excuse my teardrops on the ink. I miss him terribly.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~</p><p> </p><p>September 14, 1934</p><p>Dear Emily,</p><p>This news has come as a terrible blow, but I am sure it has been hardest for you. </p><p>Please have our agents sell everything and return to New York as soon as you possibly can. I fear for your safety and have no desire to return to Europe. My home is here.</p><p>Your loving stepson,<br/>
Gustave</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It is a little known fact that the Astor family had Jewish ancestry, which would have, of course, left Emily properly concerned for her own safety.</p><p>It would also not be farfetched for a French nobleman married to an American to become a spy for what would eventually become the Allied Forces. I think this is a fitting end for Raoul, as he always did such a good job of playing the hero.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. I'd make time itself somehow bend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Give me a place to stand and I will move the world.”</p><p>"Come again?" Gustave looked up from his late-night calculations.</p><p>“Surely you know Archimedes,” Kathryn teased from the doorway of the office, feigning a bravado she did not feel. “He said he could move the world with a lever if he had a place to stand.”</p><p>“Aside from his failure to grasp the role of gravitational forces outside of the Earth’s rotation, he was correct,” replied Gustave, still half-absorbed by rotational calculations of another variety.</p><p>“Gustave, it’s almost one in the morning. Come to bed.”</p><p>“I’m so close, Kathryn.”</p><p>“All the more reason. Who knows how many more nights we’ll have?”</p><p>He looked up to find her eyes brimming with tears.</p><p>“Oh love,” he said, standing and coming around his desk. “It won’t be like that. You won’t even remember. None of us will.”</p><p>“But then we may never meet at all.”</p><p>He put his arms around her and they stood like that for a long time. Her head on his chest, her tears soaking into his nightshirt.</p><p>“Kathryn,” he finally said, “you know I don’t believe in the God we were raised to worship, but I do believe that there are forces in the universe we do not yet fully understand. From the moment we met, I knew that something bigger than both of us meant for it to happen. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t know, in the exact same way, that we will find one another again.”</p><p>“Do you promise me?”</p><p>“Yes love. I promise.”</p><p>She kissed him on the mouth then, and he melted into her.</p><p>“Please come to bed,” she said.</p><p>And he did.</p><p>~~~~</p><p>Erik could not help but marvel at the size of the machine they had constructed together. It ran the entire circumference of the deck and dipped low into the hold of the ancient freighter they had bought and gutted to contain and transport it. </p><p>He had long since given up trying to fully understand how it worked. His intellect had grasped every facet of many fields and disciplines over the years, but his son thoroughly outstripped him when it came to theoretical physics.</p><p>“That’s the last set of checks done,” said Gustave, entering the bridge at last. “Our window should open in about fifteen minutes. Is everything set to run her aground?”</p><p>“I think so, but you had better double check while I start the pre-fire sequence.”</p><p>The two men worked in companionable silence for several minutes, speaking only to coordinate last-minute adjustments until at last Gustave said, “and there it is.”</p><p>The pier was on the very edge of the Phantasma property. Erik had kept it cordoned off since that fateful night: another exhibit in what he had come to realize was a sort of Museum of Christine. But now the wood was splintering far below them as the prow of the boat crashed through it. </p><p>They were past the point of no return. </p><p>He turned to look at Gustave, whose face was lit eerily by the array of controls and dials before him. Far below them, exactly at pier level, the device was spinning up. The increasing momentum of the massive osmium hammer rocked the ship violently as her prow hit the wharf with a shriek of metal.</p><p>“Now!” Gustave cried and Erik threw the switch that would drop the electromagnetic “wand” into the center of what was widening very slowly from an undeniable point of light into a swirling vortex as the hammer spun ever faster.</p><p>From below, they could hear voices shouting ever so faintly.</p><p>“It’s working!” Gustave exclaimed. </p><p>And then, as the vortex widened, Erik heard his own voice and looked down in astonishment to see the worst day of his life playing out from above.</p><p>“Beauty sometimes goes unseen,” he whispered along with his younger self below. "We can’t all be like Christine.”</p><p>And as Meg flailed in her agony, Gustave threw the final switch: the one that would activate the wand and seal their destinies. The dull thrum of the pulse drained all sound and color from the world, and yet its immense magnetic force translated to only the barest whisper through the veil. </p><p>Such a whisper could never have convinced a man who believed himself a monster to watch the sun rise over Paris with a woman who loved him; nor could it have stopped him from wallowing in his regrets for a decade.</p><p>But it was enough to alter the trajectory of a bullet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm no physicist, but I have watched a lot of Star Trek.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. In the shadows of the park</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine knew the second the words escaped Erik’s lips that they would not go over well with Meg. She hastened to his side, determined to help him extract the gun from her old friend’s hands without further incident. </p><p>Moments later, she heard the gunshot and felt the bullet snag the skirt of her blue gown as it whizzed by. She turned to see where it had gone and found Gustave sinking slowly to his knees, a confused expression on his angelic face.</p><p>“Gustave!” she cried and rushed towards her son, whose already pale face was now ghostly white, his eyes huge and frightened.</p><p>Erik was at her heels. “Giry, get help! Quickly!” he cried, and mother and daughter ran up the hill towards the residential complex, where Kazu had mercifully insisted that Erik keep a doctor on staff for the good of the performers - some of whom had complicated medical backgrounds.</p><p>While Christine held Gustave to her bosom, Erik came around behind the boy and propped up his small torso, examining him carefully to find where he should apply pressure. He was relieved to find the entry wound high up on the boy’s shoulder and began searching for its twin.</p><p>“It looks like a through-and-through,” he said at last, looking up at Christine. Her face was nearly as pale as Gustave’s and tears sparkled in her beautiful eyes. At her look of incomprehension he added, “that means the bullet went right through his shoulder. He’s not bleeding very badly. I think he’s going to be alright."</p><p>“Gustave, my boy, listen to me,” he said, “I know it is very difficult but you must do your best to stay awake and calm. You’ve been shot but it’s not a bad wound. The doctor will be here in just a few minutes so what we all need to do is stay calm together.”</p><p>“Remember, my love, how we breathe when we are singing,” Christine said, holding Gustave’s hands now and breathing with him. "Just like a swing set in our belly, going forward and back. In and out."</p><p>Gustave took a few steadying breaths. His whole body weight was now leaning back against Erik’s torso, his legs still tucked under him.</p><p>“It doesn’t hurt,” he murmured. “Why doesn’t it hurt?”</p><p>“You’re in shock,” Erik explained, struggling to keep his voice even. “That’s what happens when the body is damaged like this. And that’s why it’s very important,” he gently tapped Gustave’s face as the boy’s eyes began to lose focus, “that you stay awake and calm.”</p><p>The Girys came running back with Raoul and Dr. Anderson close behind.</p><p>Erik leaned Gustave forward against his mother and stood, Anderson smoothly replaced him at the boy’s back.</p><p>“It’s a through-and-through,” Anderson pronounced while taking Gustave’s pulse, “it’s safe to move him.” He turned to Gustave, whose face was now clammy with perspiration. "Let’s get you up to the infirmary and I’ll see if I can patch you up, what do you say?”</p><p>Gustave nodded weakly and half-smiled.</p><p>“There’s a good lad,” Anderson said, returning Gustave’s smile warmly.</p><p>Christine lifted Gustave in her arms and followed Anderson up the hill. Raoul, who had been standing speechless this entire time turned to follow her, but not before locking eyes with Erik.</p><p>“Thank you,” he said, and turned to catch up with the little party making haste up the hill.</p><p>“Master,” said Madame Giry, coming towards him. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Yes, no thanks to your daughter,” Erik snarled, wiping Gustave’s blood from his hand with his handkerchief. “Gustave could have been killed.”</p><p>Meg came out of the shadows, her whole body shaking. She looked mussed and feeble, like a child after a tantrum.</p><p>“Oh God! I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I could have killed someone. Oh God!”</p><p>“There there,” said Madame, putting an arm around her shoulders and rubbing them briskly. “The good news is that it seems Gustave will be alright. Once Doctor Anderson is finished with him, we’ll have him look you over too, eh?”</p><p>Erik softened a little at the sight of Meg’s wretched face. The poor girl had been on the brink of suicide even before the gun went off. Gustave would live. There was no need for more ugliness tonight.</p><p>“Come,” he said, “let’s get inside and have a glass of something and then see what Doctor Anderson has to say, shall we?"</p>
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<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Twisted every way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Christine chooses.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’ve got an awful lot of melanin in your skin. Your ancestors must have come from a Southerly climate.”</p><p>“Gustave!” Christine scolded.</p><p>“It’s quite alright,” Dr. Anderson replied. “He’s just a little giddy from the laudanum. And also a very clever boy.”</p><p>Dr. Anderson turned to address his patient. “That’s right. My ancestors did come from a Southerly climate. Did you know that there’s a special school here in America for doctors who look like me?”</p><p>“There is?”</p><p>“Look over there on the wall,” he said, pointing to a framed document. “What does that say?”</p><p>Gustave squinted. “Howard University School of Medicine,” he replied.</p><p>“Well there’s nothing wrong with his eyesight,” Dr. Anderson said, smiling and turning back to Christine and Raoul. </p><p>“Gustave was extremely lucky. As you probably discerned from the lack of significant blood loss, the bullet did not hit any major arteries. The main concern now is infection. </p><p>“The conventional wisdom would have me stitch his wounds straight away, but I’ve found that can actually seal bacteria inside the wound and lead to more serious infection. I recommend that Gustave remain here for several days. I’ll apply anti-bacterial solutions, make sure his wounds are draining, and keep them covered in sterile gauze. Once we’re certain that no infection has set in, I’ll stitch him up.”</p><p>“Exactly how novel is this treatment?” asked Raoul.</p><p>“A group of us devised it in medical school,” the doctor replied. “The technique is relatively new, but we’ve all seen remarkable results in a variety of injuries. We’re in the process of writing a paper on it.”</p><p>“I’ve found that Dr. Anderson can be trusted to be at least two steps ahead of modern medicine,” said Erik, emerging from the doorway where he had been standing unnoticed for some time. </p><p>Christine’s hand flew to her lips as he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal massive scar on his forearm. “The product of an unfortunate encounter with a damaged set piece a few years ago,” he explained. “I had fourteen stitches, but not before he had me in here for three days applying those solutions. They burn like the devil, but they work.”</p><p>Christine looked at Raoul, who was clearly discomfited. “I think we should do as the doctor suggests, darling.”</p><p>Raoul looked from Erik to Christine and a flicker of something, Christine couldn’t quite tell what, passed over his face.</p><p>“Very well,” he said.</p><p>Dr. Anderson nodded and turned to Erik, “it would be helpful if a nurse could be brought in as we did for you. This kind of care requires round-the-clock supervision.”</p><p>“Of course,” Erik replied. “I’ll have Kazu see to it straight away.”</p><p>“Thank you,” replied the doctor. “Now, my patient requires rest. Mrs. de Chagny, if you would like to stay here with him tonight I can have a cot brought in.”</p><p>“Thank you, Doctor,” replied Christine, “that would be very helpful.” She walked over to Gustave, whose eyes were half closed.</p><p>“Darling,” she said, “I’m going to step out for just a moment to gather a few things, but then I will be back to stay the night. Dr. Anderson is going to take good care of you.”</p><p>Gustave smiled vaguely. “I’ll just wait here for you Mother.”</p><p>Christine kissed her son’s forehead, gave Dr. Anderson a grateful smile, and exited into the corridor, Raoul and Erik following close behind.</p><p>As soon as the infirmary door closed behind them, Raoul rounded on Christine and Erik. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t know exactly what’s going on here.”</p><p>“Monsieur le Vicomte, this is not the place or time for…” Erik began, but Christine cut him off. </p><p>“I must go back to our room and gather some clothes. Why don’t you both come with me and we can have this conversation a little farther afield?” She gestured with her head to the door of the infirmary.</p><p>Raoul rolled his eyes but fell into step behind her as the awkward trio made their way across the campus to the park’s hotel.</p><p>As soon as they were in their suite, Raoul turned to Christine. “I just want one answer. Did you know before or after our wedding night that you were pregnant with Gustave?”</p><p>Christine blanched but her voice was even when she said, “after.”</p><p>“And how long before our wedding were you… involved with this creature?”</p><p>Erik bristled but, at a look from Christine, did not protest further.</p><p>“It was just one night,” she replied, casting her eyes to the floor. “It was just after the opera house burned. I was so twisted up inside, Raoul! I had to know. I found him and we spoke and then…”</p><p>“And then you conceived a child that you passed off as mine for ten years.”</p><p>Tears sprang to her eyes, but she did not falter. </p><p>“When did you realize?”</p><p>“In retrospect, I think I suspected for years. But in the end <em>he</em> had to tell me,” he gestured to Erik before looking the other way in disgust.</p><p>“When?” she asked, her eyes searching them both in astonishment.</p><p>The two men looked at one another and a sheepish expression passed over their faces simultaneously.</p><p>“Well?” she said, color rising in her lovely face. “What aren’t you telling me?”</p><p>“I placed… we placed,” Erik began.</p><p>“It was just a small wager,” continued Raoul.</p><p>“What kind of wager?” Christine demanded, sensing something of the truth now.</p><p>“We made an arrangement,” Erik said carefully, raising his hand and darkening his voice in that way that made her bleary eyed and weak in the knees. “I needed you, Christine. We agreed that if you chose me, my music, if you chose to sing, then Raoul would leave and we could be together at last.”</p><p>Her jaw dropped a little. Part of her trembled in submission to this strange effect he had on her, but some stronger portion of her soul rose to her defense.</p><p>“So that’s what all that fuss backstage was about,” she said. "The both of you pleading your cases and hovering in the wings! But did neither of you think that perhaps I might wish to have a say in who I stay or go with?”</p><p>She rounded on Raoul. “I am not your family fortune. You cannot simply leave me on a card table for some other man to win. And you,” she turned back to Erik, “you really believed that you could walk into my life ten years after you abandoned me and I would just fall back into your arms and ask no questions when my husband left me a baffling note and vanished?”</p><p>A stunned silence descended over both men.</p><p>“And worst of all Raoul, you left Gustave completely unattended backstage. Meg wouldn’t have been able to lure him away if you hadn't been so preoccupied with your silly bet. He could have been killed!"</p><p>She became more furious still at the two men’s continued, wide-eyed silence.</p><p>“Well?” she demanded, “what do you have to say for yourselves?”</p><p>“We, well that is to say, I…”</p><p>“I couldn’t begin to, Christine, I…”</p><p>“It’s just that, you see…”</p><p>Finally, Erik managed to cease stumbling over his own tongue. “You’re right, of course Christine. It should be your choice. Who do you love? Who will it be?”</p><p>“Who do I love?” she asked, her voice trembling. “I have loved both of you for almost as long as I can remember. The sweet boy who rescued my scarf from the surf, who Papa liked, who was gentle and kind. The angel who gave me secret wings, the man who saw something holy and profound inside of me that I still don’t fully understand. The father of my son.</p><p>“My love for you both has been the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow of my life. But as for who I choose?”</p><p>She looked between their faces, searching for an answer, slowly convincing herself. </p><p>“I choose myself. I choose my own dignity. I choose not to be with men who treat me as a plaything, no matter how much I may love them. </p><p>“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said with a sob, “I must pack my bag and return to the infirmary. My son needs me.”</p><p>She turned and strode off to the bedroom without another word, leaving Erik and Raoul stunned into silence in her wake.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. The waves now bring you back to me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine was about to re-enter the infirmary’s waiting area when she heard Madame Giry’s voice coming from inside.</p><p>“Meg, you must believe how sorry I am. I cannot imagine how…”</p><p>“You’re correct, Maman,” Meg croaked, voice raw from crying. "You cannot imagine. You were only ever with Papa, weren’t you? Can you imagine lying with hundreds of men, all of them disgusting and musty and covered in hair?” </p><p>“Chere, I thought you did it willingly.”</p><p>“Of course I did it willingly! I would have done anything for him! He was all I had left of her!"</p><p>Christine shivered. The words "all I had left of her" rang out inside her like a string of tiny silver bells in a vast, unlit cavern. She had no idea what they meant, but their echo was beautiful and took a long time to recede.</p><p>"I thought once we built Phantasma, once I had proven myself worthy, he would give me the wings I needed to fly up to her. But he was too busy brooding. As if he had a monopoly on loving her and longing for her. As if I could not have understood or shared in his pain. As if I were nothing.”</p><p>“I think it would be good for all of us to take a deep breath,” Dr. Anderson said, very slowly and softly. “Psychiatry is not my area of expertise, but I take what you’re going through very seriously, Meg.</p><p>“I’m not equipped to provide the kind of care you need here, but I do have a good friend who is a practicing psychiatrist at a private hospital near the Finger Lakes. I think it would be best for you to stay with her for a time. I know she can help you."</p><p>“I will not go to your nut house!” cried Meg.</p><p>“It’s nothing like what you’re thinking. There are woods and a lake where you could swim every day. You can relax and take some time to better understand what you’ve been through."</p><p>As the ringing in her heart subsided, Christine remembered herself. She had been too rapt to think of how rude it was to eavesdrop on such a private conversation. She turned and swiftly left the way she had come in.</p><p>The clock struck midnight as she stepped out onto the boardwalk. The tide was coming in and the tangy seaside air cooled the flush in her cheeks. She felt fresh tears spring to her eyes and she let them fall silently.</p><p>She set down her bag, crossed herself, and began, “<em>Notre p</em>è<em>re qui est au cieux, que ton nom soit sanctifié…</em>”</p><p>She prayed for Raoul, that her betrayal would not pain him for long and that he might someday forgive her.</p><p>She prayed for Erik, that he would find the contentment that had eluded him his whole life.</p><p>As always, she prayed most fervently for Gustave - for his safety, his well-being, his happiness.</p><p>And she prayed for Meg, not with words, but by calling forth that feeling of endless ringing. She knew that God would understand it even if she did not.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said aloud into the wind, “for giving us Dr. Anderson. Please bless him and his family and please…” she sobbed, “please give me the wisdom to know which way to go. I can no longer live as I have been and I am so alone. Please help me find my way."</p><p>She dried her eyes, crossed herself again, and turned back, hoping to find the infirmary's entryway somewhat less crowded than it had been.</p><p>She passed through the now-empty waiting room to find Dr. Anderson setting up Japanese screens to cordon off a little sleeping area for herself and Gustave, complete with a second cot and a roll of simple bedding.</p><p>“I thought you’d like some privacy,” he said.</p><p>“Thank you,” she replied, setting down her overnight bag a little awkwardly.</p><p>“There’s a ladies room off the corridor if you’d like to wash up and change into something that’s been freshly laundered,” he suggested helpfully, gesturing to her ruined gown. “I could use your help treating Gustave’s wound when you get back, since I won't have a nurse to assist me until tomorrow.”</p><p>“Of course,” she said.</p><p>She returned some minutes later in her dressing gown. She was a little uncomfortable to be in such a state of undress with a strange man, but she reminded herself that he was a doctor.</p><p>“What do you need me to do?”</p><p>“I’m going to need you to hand me things. Wash your hands thoroughly at the wash station and then put on a pair of gloves. I’ve given Gustave another dose of laudanum so this won’t hurt him overmuch but we need to work quickly.”</p><p>The next twenty minutes were spent carefully irrigating Gustave’s bullet wound. Christine’s heart broke at the sight of the hole in her little boy’s body, but she kept her head and did as Dr. Anderson asked her to, carefully handing him each anti-bacterial solution as he named it. At last, he removed the kidney-shaped dish from under Gustave’s shoulder. It was full of solution and a little blood. </p><p>“No pus,” he said. “That’s a good sign. Now the bandages."</p><p>She handed them to him.</p><p>“We’ll need to treat his wound like this several times each day,” he said as he dressed the wounds thoroughly. “We’ll change the bandages each time and keep watch for any signs of infection. If we do our jobs well enough, we should be able to stitch him up in about three days.”</p><p>“What if he does get an infection?”</p><p>“Then we’ll keep cleaning the wound until his body fights it off. He’s young and otherwise healthy, Mrs. de Chagny. I’m confident we can see him through this.”</p><p>“Please,” she said, “you’ve saved my son’s life. Call me Christine.”</p><p>He smiled, a little mischievously. “Only if you call me Maynard.”</p><p>“Maynard,” she said, taking his hand warmly in her own, “thank you for taking such good care of my baby."</p><p>“He’s a good kid," he replied, taking her hand in both of his. "He’s going to be alright. Now you should get some rest. If you two need anything, my office and quarters are just across the hall."</p><p>After he left, Christine curled up on the cot, which was surprisingly comfortable, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She watched Gustave’s chest rise and fall, softly, evenly. She thanked God yet again, closed her eyes, and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.</p>
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<a name="section0025"><h2>25. The chance to live</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine woke in the early hours to find Erik standing over Gustave’s bed, his shoulders shaking, one hand on his hip, the other across his mouth. It took her a moment to realize that he was weeping.</p><p>She had known Erik to thrash, to bawl, even to plead, but she had never seen him simply weep.</p><p>She stirred a little and he turned, his tearful face illuminated by the faint light of the workstation.</p><p>“He looks so small,” he whispered.</p><p>“The doctor says he’s likely to make a full recovery,” she said reassuringly.</p><p>“Dr. Anderson is very capable and I’m sure he is correct; but recovering from such a wound is no mean feat, Christine."</p><p>He said this matter-of-factly, as only someone experienced in such matters could, and Christine’s mind reeled. Her hands had found innumerable scars on his body long ago, but he had never given her the chance to learn their stories.</p><p>“When?” she asked.</p><p>A sob fluttered on his breath.</p><p>“I wasn’t much older than he is.”</p><p>Her heart flooded with sorrow. It seemed that, no matter how terribly he treated her or how angry she was with him, her compassion for him was unshakable. She had no idea what to say, so she came to stand beside him and took his hand instead.</p><p>They stood like that for some time, watching their son breathe.</p><p>Erik felt the softness of her hand in his and fresh regret coursed through him. He wanted to hold her close, stroke her hair, breathe in her rosewater scent. The words, “Christine, I love you,” sprang to his lips but he held them back. They had crossed into some undiscovered country where she no longer belonged to him and he could not even delude himself into believing that she did.</p><p>Instead, he said, “he shall have everything he needs, Christine. As will you. You are the mother of my son. Wherever you go, as long as you allow it, I will make a road for you.”</p><p>Christine thought she had misheard him at first. Where was his all-consuming need for control? Where were his demands for her fealty? Was this some trick or did he earnestly mean what he was saying?</p><p>“Thank you,” she replied cautiously. “I will keep you informed and… I hope that you will spend some time with him when he is a bit better. Perhaps you can help him understand himself. I love all of who he is, but he is like you in ways that baffle me and I do not always know how to guide him.”</p><p>Erik was astonished. He could not have hoped for half as much as what she had just offered him. He had a chance to know his son!</p><p>“Thank you,” he hiccuped through fresh tears. “It would be my honor."</p>
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<a name="section0026"><h2>26. I knew how our story would end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine looked up from her book to see who was coming into the infirmary and stood when she saw Madame Giry entering the room backwards, bearing a heavy tray. </p><p>“Good morning, Madame,” she said, a little stiffly.</p><p>The older woman was flooded with shame and remorse at the formality in her old pupil’s voice, but she bit back a flurry of apologies and turned around to place the tray on the workstation. “I thought..” she broke off to clear her throat, “that you and Gustave might be hungry.”</p><p>Christine nodded her thanks and the old woman peeked around the screen to look at Gustave. “How is he?” she asked. </p><p>“As well as can be expected, thank God,” said Christine. “The doctor irrigates his wounds every few hours and so far there has been no sign of infection. He is in an awful lot of pain though. The laudanum helps. I’ll try to get some of that broth into him the next time he wakes. Thank you for bringing it.”</p><p>“It’s the worst part of motherhood,” said Giry, her voice breaking. "Seeing your child in pain and knowing you cannot make it better is unbearable.” And though she had firmly instructed herself not to, she began to cry.</p><p>Christine turned to her sympathetically, resentment ebbing as she witnessed her old ballet mistress’ distress. Giry waved her off. “No, no my dear. I’ll be alright. It is not for you to comfort me at the moment.”</p><p>Christine was undeterred. “How is Meg?”</p><p>“Troubled,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes. “I wish I could say that her behavior last night came as a surprise, but she has struggled with bouts of this… instability before.”</p><p>“From what I heard last night,” Christine replied, “it seems she made many… sacrifices to create this place and he overlooked her entirely. It must have been awful for her."</p><p>“That’s true,” replied the old woman. "I bear much of the responsibility for that. She seemed not to be the least concerned at the time, but many years later I think she began to feel as if it had amounted to nothing."</p><p>“I sincerely hope that he will pay for her care at the very least,” Christine replied.</p><p>“He hasn’t offered thus far, and I don’t think he will.”</p><p><em>Let me just see about that</em>, Christine thought, but held her tongue to avoid raising hopes.</p><p>“Madame, may… may I come to see her? Once Gustave is better, I mean.”</p><p>“I think she would like that,” she said, taking Christine’s hand. “I was not sure how you would be disposed towards her given what she did.”</p><p>“I won’t pretend that she hasn’t grievously injured my child or that I am not angry with her,” said Christine, evenly. “But there was no malice in it. She was not in her right mind. I am trying not to fault her for it."</p><p>The two women embraced and wept freely.</p><p>“You blessed child,” said Giry, stroking Christine’s hair and remembering how it had felt to hold her as a little girl. “He missed you so much that I think we began letting him miss you for all of us.”</p><p>“Was that why you had to leave Paris so suddenly?” Christine asked. “Because he was with you and you didn’t want me to know?”</p><p>The old woman sighed and pulled away again, taking Christine’s face in her hands. “I wanted to tell you,” she said. “Meg kept wheedling, trying to convince us both to bring you along, but the Master refused to hear any of it. He said he wanted you to be happy in your new life. If I had known at the time that you two had been together, I would have insisted that he at least invite you to join us."</p><p>"When did you find out?"</p><p>"He told me a few years ago. His grief was so... intense and all-consuming. I asked him why he had such trouble letting you go after insisting that we leave you behind and he told me. Oh Christine, I was so furious with him! I thought about writing to you then but I couldn't justify upending your life."</p><p>"He broke my heart, you know."</p><p>"I know, Chere. But if it's any consolation, he broke his own as well."</p><p>“I thought him dead. There was that article in the newspaper about a masked man murdered in the street."</p><p>“I know, Chere. That’s how he wanted it."</p>
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<a name="section0027"><h2>27. All I want is freedom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine and Maynard fell into an easy rhythm that day. Every few hours, Gustave would wake as the effects of the laudanum dissipated. Christine would give him another dose and feed him some broth while he was still lucid. When he began to feel the effects and rest again, she would call for Maynard who would irrigate his wound and change the bandages.</p><p>And for a few minutes late that night, Christine left Gustave with Emma, the new nurse, and went out to the boardwalk to pray.</p><p>It was there, as she was singing Ave María to the stars, that Raoul found her.</p><p>“How is he,” he asked without preamble, brandy thick on his breath.</p><p>“Maynard thinks he’s through the worst of it. He intends to stitch his wounds tomorrow.”</p><p>“Maynard? The doctor? So we’re on first name basis already I see.” </p><p>“Raoul, it’s not like that. These Americans are so informal."</p><p>“You’ll forgive my suspicions. You’ve proven skilled at concealing your... entanglements.”</p><p>Christine winced at the barb but strove for equanimity. Far too many people had lost their heads of late and Gustave had paid the price. She would not have more of that.</p><p>“How are you?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t heard.</p><p>“Oh, I’m fine,” he drawled. “I just haven’t slept in two days. How do you think I am, Christine? I miss you.”</p><p>“Oh Raoul,” she sighed. “It’s so complicated.”</p><p>“Perhaps we can strike a bargain,” he went on, as if he had not heard her.  "You forgive me for that abominably stupid bet and I forgive your indiscretion and your dishonesty. We can return to France when Gustave has healed. We can start afresh.”</p><p>“It’s not that simple.”</p><p>“But it is simple!” he slurred. "We’re man and wife.”</p><p>“But I need more!” she cried, throwing her arms open into the sea breeze. “Singing his music again, seeing Meg and dear Madame Giry again has reminded me of what my life once was. I’ve never been content within the confines of Paris society and I think you’ve always known that. I think that’s part of why you’ve been so terribly unhappy.”</p><p>“Ah yes, and it’s his <em>music</em> you’re so very drawn to,” he spat. "Just the notes on the page. Not the man himself. I suppose it was his <em>music</em> that sired Gustave as well.”</p><p>Christine cringed at the sneering contempt with which Raoul pronounced the word “music.” Was this what he truly thought of the force that connected her to God? How had she not seen this before?</p><p>“This jealousy doesn’t suit you, Raoul,” she said, measuring her words carefully. “And I’ve already told you, this isn’t about him. I won’t deny that I love him. I’ve loved him in one form or another since I was a little girl. But it’s over between us. He’s too unpredictable. I can’t trust him. And like you, he has treated me as a plaything.”</p><p>“Christine, be sensible.” </p><p>He reached for her clumsily and she took a step back, leaving him suddenly sprawling on the raw and well-trodden planks.</p><p>She looked down at him, “Raoul, pull yourself together. You are the only father Gustave has ever known and he will need you when he wakes. I suggest you get some rest. I shall do the same. I hope you will come and visit him tomorrow, if you have not had anything to drink.”</p><p>She only began to tremble when she was well away from him. </p><p>——</p><p>When she returned to the infirmary, it was Maynard who greeted her. </p><p>“Emma needed some rest,” he said, “I told her I’d stay with him until you got ba-“</p><p>The tears in her eyes all but made his heart stop. This wasn’t a mother upset over her child’s suffering. This was something else entirely.</p><p>“What happened?” he asked, drawing her away from Gustave’s cot and into the waiting area.</p><p>“Raoul, he… he was drunk and, and... so cruel.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.</p><p>When she looked up again, Maynard had produced a handkerchief, its edge hand embroidered with a pattern of blue cornflowers.</p><p>“Thank you,” she said, drying her eyes. “I feel so foolish.”</p><p>“It’s not foolish to cry when someone is being cruel to you, Christine.”</p><p>“I don’t know how he expects that treating me this way will make me return to France with him. That’s what he says he wants, but I don’t think it will actually make him happy if I do.”</p><p>“Forget what makes him happy for a minute,” he said. "What do you want?”</p><p>“All I want is freedom,” she said. “I want to explore and sing and write and raise my son and stop worrying about what other people expect of me."</p><p>“Maybe you should stay in America,” he said. “Start fresh.”</p><p>“Do you really think I could do that?”</p><p>“Sure,” he replied. “It’s not as though half of Europe hasn’t sailed over here already.”</p><p>“But where would I live?”</p><p>“My cousin owns a building in Manhattan, way uptown, North of Central Park. It’s not what you’re used to, but it’s clean and respectable. I’ll write to her and see if she has an opening for a mother and her son."</p><p>“Oh Maynard, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. This is twice in two days you’ve saved our lives.”</p><p>“Don’t mention it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand.</p><p>She examined his handkerchief, only slightly worse for the wear. </p><p>“This is beautiful,” she said. “Who embroidered it?”</p><p>“My sister, Ernestine,” he said. “She likes to send me things like this.”</p><p>“Where does your family live?”</p><p>“Montgomery, Alabama,” he said, with an edge she’d never heard in his voice before. “Or just outside of it anyway.”</p><p>“Did you come North for school?”</p><p>“Not at first. I got my undergraduate degree from Morehouse in Georgia.”</p><p>How did you end up all the way up here?</p><p>“I met Erik,” he said. “I was on a train back to Washington after visiting my family for Christmas. We had just crossed the Mason-Dixon Line and the cars stopped being segregated. I went to the men’s room and found him slumped over on the floor… very ill.”</p><p>“Oh no!” she said, her heart breaking at the idea of Erik being so vulnerable like that, and in public. He must have hated it.</p><p>“He’d taken… something that didn’t agree with him. He kept going on and on about how the Angel of Music had deserted him. I got him cleaned up and hydrated and fed and he told me he had a job for a good doctor. I wrote him when I graduated and here I am."</p><p>At the words “Angel of Music,” Christine began to cry again.</p><p>“That’s what he used to call me,” she said between sobs. “He said he was my Angel of Music and I was his.”</p><p>“I gathered you two were old friends, but you really loved each other, huh?”</p><p>“Love,” she replied. “Not loved. He wants me to stay here and be with him. He… he’s Gustave’s real father, you know.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>And the whole story tumbled out of her. Her father. The opera house. The angel who visited her in the dead of night. The man she’d found him to be. And the earnest young Vicomte who had offered her an escape from it all.</p><p>“I went from my Father’s house to Erik’s house to Raoul’s,” she said at last. “I want my own house now.”</p><p>“I’m looking forward to seeing what you make of it,” he replied.</p><p>Their conversation was interrupted by a thin little wail from the next room.</p><p>“I’ll get the bandages,” said Christine.</p>
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<a name="section0028"><h2>28. The disaster will be yours</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It only hurts a little now,” Gustave said, tapping the fingers of his right hand on the bedrail. “It’s just… when will my hand be better?”</p><p>“Your hand?” Christine asked.</p><p>He lifted his left arm and held his hand aloft. His index and middle fingers twitched a little, and his smallest two fingers did not move at all. “I’m trying, but my fingers won’t move."</p><p>“That can sometimes happen with these kinds of injuries,” Maynard explained as he sorted away the last of his suturing equipment. “You got very lucky in the sense that the bullet didn’t hit any major blood vessels, but there are a lot of nerves running through your shoulder as well. Sometimes these kinds of injuries get better in time. Sometimes they don't. We’ll just have to wait and see.”</p><p>He turned to Christine. "I’ll want to do some tests tomorrow to determine the extent of the damage.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“But how will I play the piano if my fingers won't move?” Gustave demanded, his eyes suddenly large.</p><p>Christine felt a wave of grief crash over her, but she tried not to let it show on her face. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, darling. Perhaps we could go for a walk and take in the sea air, maybe get a funnel cake?”</p><p>Gustave still looked grave, but the prospect of a funnel cake mollified him.</p><p>As it was Sunday evening, the boardwalk was not over-crowded with people. Christine and Gustave sat on a bench overlooking the water and shared the sweet carnival fare. </p><p>Erik’s heart soared when he came upon them watching the waves crash in. He would never have imagined how enchanting it could be to watch a child throw a piece of funnel cake to a seagull.</p><p>“Oh Gustave!” Christine scolded gently. “I wish you wouldn’t. They’ll be all over us now.”</p><p>“Then they shall have me to contend with,” said Erik, making his presence known.</p><p>“Mister Y!” Gustave cried, jumping up at once. “Look what I’ve got.” Hey lifted his shirt and showed off his stitches.</p><p>“My goodness!” Erik cried. “What a brave boy you are.”</p><p>Gustave beamed.</p><p>“And what wonderful doctor you have here!” Christine added. "He has been so kind and capable."</p><p>“I shall add giving him a pay raise to the list of items I must discuss with my assistant tomorrow,” Erik said, grinning at Christine.</p><p>“Gustave, why don’t you try building a sand castle? I want to talk to Mister Y for a moment.”</p><p>“Alright, Mother!” he replied, and scampered onto the beach.</p><p>“Don’t go far!” she called after him.</p><p>When he was out of earshot, she turned to Erik. “Watch his hands,” she said.</p><p>Erik watched Gustave scooping up sand and patting it into a little mound. His struggle with his left fingers was subtle, but unmistakable. </p><p>“Nerve damage,” he said gravely. "I was afraid of this.”</p><p>At her reproachful look, he added, “I didn’t say anything because I knew you were already worried enough.”</p><p>“Do you think he’ll ever improve?”</p><p>“What does the doctor say?”</p><p>“He said that sometimes these injuries get better and sometimes they don’t.”</p><p>“Then we shall just have to wait and see.”</p><p>“But his music!” she said, tears springing to her eyes again.</p><p>“I had thought of that as well,” he said, and produced a leaf of paper from his coat pocket. On it was a sketch of what looked like a glove, with a complicated frame of straps and braces across it. The glove was wrapped around a bow.</p><p>“I can teach him to play the violin left-handed,” Erik explained. “With little fitting and experimentation, this device will allow him to bow effectively with his left hand and he can stop the strings with his right hand."</p><p>The smile Christine rewarded him with then was among the sweetest gifts of his life.</p><p>“I think it would be best if we started right away,” she said. "We can tell him it’s therapy for his hand. If he heals, then the therapy worked. If it doesn’t, then he’s already on his way to being a proficient violinist.”</p><p>“My thoughts exactly,” he replied </p><p>They stood for awhile, watching their son play as the daylight faded.</p><p>“I should be getting him back.”</p><p><em>Where did the time go?</em> Erik asked himself. It felt as though it had only been a few moments, and yet he was already becoming accustomed to this feeling of… family.</p><p>“How much longer will you be staying here at Phantasma?” he asked. “I can have a prototype ready in a day or two.”</p><p>“I think we’ll be here at least that long,” she said with a sigh. “When last we spoke, Raoul was still trying to convince me to return to Paris with him. He was… less than delighted when I didn’t immediately agree.”</p><p>“Perhaps I should have my assistant arrange for another suite for you and Gustave while you sort things out?”</p><p>“That would be very helpful,” she replied, wondering not for the first time what his ultimate aim was and how much she really could trust him.</p><p>“Speak of the devil,” he said, and motioned up the boardwalk, where a portly, middle-aged Japanese man was walking quickly towards them.</p><p>Erik waved him over and prepared to make introductions, but then his stomach dropped at the look on the man's face. “Kazu, what is it?”</p><p>“I have just received word that one of our guests has had a serious accident. He fell on the grand staircase. He is in the infirmary now. Dr. Anderson has called for an ambulance. He’s believes he’s broken his back."</p><p>“Which guest?” Erik demanded, an odd feeling of premonition hanging in the air.</p><p>Kazu glanced at Christine, a bitter look on his face, before turning back to Erik. “It was the Vicomte de Chagny.”</p>
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<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Side by side again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>May 23, 1905</p><p>My Dear Christine,</p><p>I wish we could have spoken before my departure, but of course you must be beside yourself with both your husband and son injured, with little time for anything or anyone else. I pray every day for you and for your family.</p><p>I hope you know how sincerely I regret my actions that night on the pier. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done. It was by the mere whim of fate that nobody was killed or more seriously injured, although I understand that Gustave may have permanent damage to his hand. That is my fault and I shall have to live with it for the rest of my life. Maman tells me that you bear me no ill will, which is more than I deserve.</p><p>Do you remember all those years ago, when we were girls at the opera house, and you told me that it was as if the Angel of Music had given you wings? I prayed every night that he would visit me too, that he would give me wings so that I could fly with you wherever you went. The truth is that he never held that power, but oh Christine, I still long to fly with you again someday if you will allow me.</p><p>Until we meet again.</p><p>With all my love,<br/>Meg</p>
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<a name="section0030"><h2>30. What little we deserve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christine was growing weary of keeping vigil at bedsides.</p><p>With Gustave, her entire will had been fixed on helping his little body, a body that had come out of hers, to heal. But she couldn’t help but feel resentful now as she looked at Raoul, still and silent in his hospital bed. </p><p>Part of her still felt the tug of obligation, to be the dutiful wife, to fetch and carry and cover for him. But the truth was that her husband was a drunkard and a compulsive gambler and she could not allow this to be her problem any longer.</p><p>“Christine?”</p><p>His voice was reedy and thin, like that of a much older man.</p><p>“I’m here.”</p><p>“Where am I?”</p><p>She steeled herself.</p><p>“You’re in the hospital, Raoul. You’ve taken a bad fall. What’s the last thing you remember?”</p><p>He squinted. “I was having a drink in the bar when some common fellow got cheeky with me. I took a swing at him. I don’t know what happened after that. I must have blacked out."</p><p>“You were kicked out of the bar for starting a fight.”</p><p>“Was I?’</p><p>“Then you fell down some stairs.”</p><p>“I’ve got a splitting headache,” he said. “I must be hung over something awful.”</p><p>“That was four days ago,” she said. “You have a concussion. That’s probably why.”</p><p>“Is that why I can’t feel my legs?”</p><p>“No,” she said matter of factly as she crossed the room to ring for the nurse. “You can’t feel your legs because you’ve broken your back. The doctors… don’t think that you’ll ever be able to walk again.”</p><p>“Very funny,” he said, still slurring a little as though he were indeed drunk or hung over. “Is this some game of yours too convince me of the evils of drink?”</p><p>She felt her cheeks burn with anger at this absurd deflection, and she only barely rose above the urge to slap him. “Gustave has pulled through,” she said, pretending he’d asked. “Maynard stitched him up beautifully. He’ll have scars and it’s possible he has some nerve damage in his hand, but he’ll live.”</p><p>His eyes swam into focus a bit. “Good,” he said. “Of course, that’s, that’s good. Where is he?”</p><p>“He’s with Erik and Madame Giry,” she replied.</p><p>“You left him with that… that…”</p><p>“I left him with his father,” she said. “There’s no point in pretending any differently, especially since you couldn’t be bothered to show up at his bedside."</p><p>“But you were there, Christine. And I wasn’t… I couldn’t…. As you say, he is not my son.”</p><p>“Well in that case I’m sure it won’t trouble you overmuch if he remains here in America with me.”</p><p>“Christine, not this again. We are going back to France and that’s that.”</p><p>“Perhaps you haven’t understood me plainly,” she said, anger now rising in her voice despite her attempts at equanimity. “We may be married by law, but in no other way are you my partner any longer. You gambled me away as if I were your watch or the deed to your family estate. I’m moving into an apartment uptown in a few days. You are welcome to say goodbye to Gustave if you choose to return to France, or you may see him regularly if you remain here in New York.”</p><p>“Christine, surely you can’t expect me to go home alone, like… like this.”</p><p>“I don’t care where you go or what you do, honestly,” she said, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Who was this woman? So full of conviction in her own defense. “As my husband, you are legally entitled to whatever little money is in our names, but I hope you will not be so cruel as to send us out into the world with nothing.”</p><p>“Christine, of course, I wouldn’t. Christine, I love you.”</p><p>He looked truly stricken now, more so than when he had been unconscious.</p><p>“Love is entirely beside the point,” she said. “No matter how much I care for you or how deeply it pains me to see you like this, I know now that I cannot love you away from your vices.”</p><p>The nurse came in at long last, and busied herself with taking Raoul’s pulse.</p><p>“And how are we feeling, Mr. de Chagny?” she asked briskly.</p><p>“Just dandy,” he said, looking up at Christine sourly. “Although I could do with a drink.”</p><p>Christine ignored his jibe and spoke to the nurse instead.</p><p>“I’m just going to leave this with you then,” she said, handing the nurse a folded piece of paper. “You may send any bills or correspondence to me at this address: 263 West 132nd St, Apartment 3B."</p><p>She left without a backward glance. She knew she shouldn’t have been so sharp with a sick man like that, but if ever one deserved it, it was Raoul.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. It's as if he's always known me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Erik had never had occasion to come this far uptown before Christine and Gustave moved here. Most of the people who lived here were Negros, and they often looked askance at him - a white man wearing a white mask - emerging from his horseless carriage.</p><p>Erik had never been uncomfortable around Maynard, but he always found himself more than a little discomfited being in the minority like this; being under scrutiny. He wondered whether this was how Maynard felt all the time, surrounded by so many white people, and whether Christine and Gustave felt quite at home here.</p><p>Seemingly in answer to his question, Gustave burst through the front door of the building labeled 263, laughing and squealing. A young boy pelted after him and caught up to him on the sidewalk. “Tag, you’re it!” the boy shouted and tore up the block with Gustave in hot pursuit.</p><p>Christine leaned out of the upstairs window. “Gustave!” she called, “Erik will be here for your lesson any minute. Come back inside!”</p><p>Gustave wheeled around. “But Mother, Stanley will get away!”</p><p>“You can catch up with Stanley later. Erik is coming all the way up from Brooklyn and it would be rude to keep him wai-. Oh, hello.” Her eyes caught Erik’s, gazing up at her in admiration for a moment before he looked away. She flushed despite herself.</p><p>“Hello, Christine. Am I early?”</p><p>“No, you’re right on time. Come up. Gustave! Please get back in here. I mean it!”</p><p>Stanley who was now standing at the end of the block, stuck out his tongue at Gustave.</p><p>“I’ll be there in just a moment, Mother. I promise!” Gustave called as he ran after his friend.</p><p>Christine sighed and looked down at Erik, who was once again gazing up at her. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come up!”</p><p>At the top of the stairs, he found the door to the apartment open. </p><p>He noted the Chickering upright piano, new since his last visit, and realized that this must be for her since Gustave could no longer play. His mind flew back to that night on the balcony after he had first revealed himself to her, when he heard her composing that lively little tune. He wondered if she had expanded upon it and whether she had been working on anything else.</p><p>“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she called from the small kitchen. “Can I get you some coffee?”</p><p>“Please,” he replied, still taken aback by her manner even after having witnessed this change in her over the past few months. He liked seeing her so confident and at ease, even as it disconcerted him.</p><p>She lit the burner and put the kettle on. "Gustave should be back in a moment. He and Stanley won’t have gone far. Those two have been as thick as thieves ever since we moved in.”</p><p>“It’s good to see him so boisterous and healthy.”</p><p>“Isn’t it? He never had a friend like this back in Paris. Stanley is a very fine young man. His mother owns the building and they live just downstairs.”</p><p>The teapot hissed and was accompanied by the clatter of cups and glasses. </p><p>She came back into the living room, placed the coffee tray on the end table, and sat down opposite him.</p><p>“How are you?” she asked.</p><p>“Things have been busy,” he said. “Business is picking up for the summer.”</p><p>“Are you composing anything?”</p><p>“I should ask you the same question.” The words flew out his mouth before he could stop them.</p><p>She started a little at this. “What has Gustave told you?”</p><p>“Nothing,” he replied, before admitting sheepishly, “I heard you working on something that night, after we saw each other again for the first time.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Thank you.” </p><p>“So… are you? Composing?”</p><p>“Yes. I have been for years now.”</p><p>“May I see your work?”</p><p>“Perhaps someday,” she said. “For now it would be best if we focused on Gustave’s music.”</p><p>At this, two sets of young feet could be heard scampering up the stairs.</p><p>“I’ll see you later,” Stanley yelled from below.</p><p>“Not if I see you first!” Gustave cried in reply from the landing.</p><p>“Hello Erik,” he said as he entered the apartment, his face flushed. “I’m sorry I ran off, I just couldn’t finish the game being ‘it.’”</p><p>“That’s quite all right,” Erik replied with a chuckle. The sight of his son’s rosy cheeks made his heart glow. Such a strange, new feeling.</p><p>“Shall we get started?” </p><p>“I’ll get my violin.”</p><p>Erik opened his satchel and produced a small case. He opened it and produced a new glove. “I’ve refined the design based on Gustave’s feedback,” he explained to Christine. “This mechanism is designed to help him bow more easily.”</p><p>“How interesting."</p><p>Gustave re-entered the room, violin in hand. “I’ve been practicing,” he said, “I think I’ve nearly got ‘Ave Maria.’” </p><p>“That’s very good. I’d like to hear it.”</p><p>Gustave put his glove on, attached it to the bow, and played. His performance was not flawless, but certainly impressive for a boy who had only been playing for a few short months, never mind one who had lost much of the dexterity in his bow hand.</p><p>“I’ve built you a prototype for a new glove,” Erik explained. “Would you like to try it?”</p><p>Gustave nodded, but any further reply was interrupted by a young woman peering around the doorway.</p><p>“Christine,” she said, “can I borrow you for a minute?”</p><p>“Of course.” Christine went out into the hallway and spoke with the woman in hushed, but urgent tones while Erik busied himself fitting Gustave’s new glove to his hand.</p><p>Christine poked her head around the door frame. “I’m going to go downstairs and visit with Josephine for awhile.”</p><p>Erik felt a little downcast at her departure, but refocused his mind on fitting the mechanism to Gustave’s hand. After a few minutes, he said, “try that now.”</p><p>Gustave took up his bow again and tried again. His performance was notably smoother.</p><p>“That felt wonderful!” he exclaimed. "Like flying after only being able to crawl.”</p><p>Erik beamed. “That’s exactly how it’s meant to feel. I think this means you are ready for more challenging material.”</p><p>Erik pulled out a sheaf of music from his satchel and began laying selections out on the sofa for Gustave to look at.</p><p>“Erik,” said Gustave, a little nervously. “My hand isn’t going to get better, is it?”</p><p>“We had hoped that perhaps it might,” Erik said, unable to meet his son’s eyes, “but there’s little likelihood of that now.”</p><p>“I’m glad I’ve learned to play the violin. I like it better than piano anyway. I like the way it feels inside my mind.”</p><p>“Tell me more.”</p><p>“Well, you know how with the piano, the left hand is mostly responsible for the rhythm and bass notes, and the right hand is mostly responsible for the treble and the melody? With violin, the left hand is responsible for the rhythm and which strings are played, but the right hand selects the pitches. It’s as if someone rotated everything ninety degrees and...”</p><p>Erik was grinning. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’ve just described the reason I play the violin as well as the piano,” he said. “Stringed and keyed instruments compliment one another in a musician's mind. One day, we shall create a prosthesis precise enough for you to play the piano again. I promise you.”</p><p>“Thank you,” said Gustave. “You’re such a wonderful teacher.”</p><p>Erik blinked away tears. "What shall we play next?”</p><p>Gustave studied the sheet music. “Could we do Scarlatti’s Minuetto?”</p><p>“Very well,” he said, taking out his own violin.</p><p>And they began.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Phantom of the Opera franchise needs more people of color in it and I am doing my level best to address that.</p><p>Maynard has opened a door for Christine, whom he trusts, into Harlem at a time when the seeds of the renaissance that defined so much of 20th Century American art were taking root. This would be a rich place and time for a child of any race to grow up, especially one who is musical.</p><p>I went back and forth between using our modern term for people of African ancestry (Black) and using the term that would have been used at the time (Negro). In the end, I felt that the latter was more authentic to the time period. If any reader, especially Black readers, feel that this or any other aspect of this part of the plot needs to be different, I would be grateful for your feedback.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. A collector's piece, indeed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>December 14, 1905,</p><p>Dear Christine,</p><p>Thank you for your kind letter inquiring about my health. I have had no more luck with any of the doctors here than I did in America. It appears that I shall be using this chair until my death. </p><p>Maison de Chagny sold rather quickly and I have used the proceeds to purchase a home that is more navigable on wheels and hire a full-time nurse. I feel I shall be quite comfortable here, although what to do with my time now remains unknown to me. </p><p>You have made yourself abundantly clear, and I firmly understand that there is no chance for us to have a future together as husband and wife. It pains me greatly, but I respect your decision and understand your reasons.</p><p>I want you to know that I have not had a drop to drink in four months, which has been difficult in the extreme. You were correct, of course, and I wish I had given it up a good deal sooner. Perhaps I would have given you less cause for grief.</p><p>The parcel I am sending along with this letter contains an object I hope you will cherish. You spoke of it so often and I thought that you might like to be reunited with it.</p><p>Please tell Gustave that I shall very much look forward to seeing him when you two visit in the spring.</p><p>Yours, most humbly,<br/>
Raoul</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. What a triumph you gave me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What do you two have there?” Christine said, coming in from the kitchen, her hands covered in bread dough.</p><p>Erik put down his satchel and took off his hat. "The delivery man came while Gustave was letting me in."</p><p>"It’s addressed to you," Gustave said as he lugged it over the threshold. "It looks like Father’s handwriting.”</p><p>Christine took the parcel from Gustave. It was surprisingly heavy and rattled mysteriously. It must have cost Raoul a fortune to send it, whatever it was. She was wildly curious, but the discomfort on Erik’s face gave her pause.</p><p>“Let’s open that later, shall we?” she asked, setting it on the end table. “Why don’t you two get to practicing? I have a few letters I need to finish before dinner.”</p><p>After several hours of practice, they sat down to a meal of baguette and bouillabaisse, which made them all feel quite at home. </p><p>“Mr. Hubbell says I’ve almost finished all the high school curriculum for math and science,” Gustave told them. “I’m thinking about writing to Columbia to see if they’ll allow me to audit classes there in the fall.”</p><p>“Have a look at Princeton,” said Erik, sagely. “I understand that their physical science programs are somewhat stronger.”</p><p>“I will. Thank you,” replied Gustave, wondering not for the first time at how Erik seemed to share his interests. Not just as a musician, but in a way that nobody else ever had. Not even Mother and certainly not Father.</p><p>Christine set down her glass of port and said. “Alright, Gustave. It’s past your bedtime. Go brush your teeth and say your prayers. I’ll come tuck you in shortly.”</p><p>He grimaced. “Mother! I’m not a little boy anymore. I don’t need to be tucked in."</p><p>“Well you’re still <em>my</em> little boy and I would like to tuck you in. Do you mind terribly?”</p><p>“Fine,” he said with a grin. “Goodnight, Erik!”</p><p>“Goodnight, son.”</p><p>Christine shot him a sharp look and he shrugged, as if to say, “I’m sorry, it just came out.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “Will you stay while I get him settled? There’s something I’d like to show you."</p><p>~~~~</p><p>“Christine, these are… quite good.”</p><p>Erik had just played through several of Christine’s etudes and sonatas and was looking over her piano concerto with a mixture of pride and astonishment he had not felt since the night he'd first coaxed an aria from a mere scrap of a girl in the wings of the Opera Populaire.</p><p>“Do you promise me that you’re not just being kind?”</p><p>“Have I ever told you that your work was good when it wasn’t?”</p><p>She smiled. “No.”</p><p>“Do you have anything else?”</p><p>“Just this. It’s not finished yet.” She handed him a sketch of a piece written for two violins and piano. All the pieces weren’t in place yet, but he would have recognized the melody anywhere. It was the lively little tune she'd been humming that night on the balcony; the night when he crouched in the shadows and caught his first glimpse of her real genius.</p><p>“I had no idea you were this gifted,” he said at last, looking at her with utter astonishment. “I must apologize to you. As your teacher, I should have seen your promise and guided you as much towards this as towards singing.”</p><p>“Why didn’t you?”</p><p>“Probably because you were a beautiful girl and I was a besotted old fool in love with your voice.”</p><p>She chuckled. “You said it. Not me."</p><p>“You could perform some of this work. I know you’ve been in talks to sing at the Met and for Mr. Hammerstein, but perhaps you could also play some of these.”</p><p>“I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet,” she said, “but when this piece is finished, I’d like for you and Gustave to play it with me.”</p><p>“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he said.</p><p>The clock struck eleven.</p><p>“It’s getting late. I should be heading to bed and you have a long drive all the way back downtown.”</p><p>She began gathering up the pages of music and filing them away when a page he had not seen yet dropped to the floor.</p><p>“What’s this?” he asked as he reached for it, eager for more of her work.</p><p>She picked up the paper quickly, but not before he caught a glimpse of the title, “Angel.” This surprised him, as she had not named any of her other pieces.</p><p>“I’m not ready to share that one yet,” she said, hastily filing it away with the rest.</p><p>An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which neither of them wanted to be the first to acknowledge the significance of the piece.</p><p>To change the subject, she finally said, “would you like to see what was in that parcel?”</p><p>“By all means."</p><p>She set it on the table and tore into the brown paper to reveal a dark red velvet box with a letter on top; which she read with an affectionate smile and set aside without comment.</p><p>She unclasped the box, opened it, and jumped a foot back; her hands clasped to her mouth, her eyes wide - as if she had just left her body entirely. </p><p>“Christine, what is it?”</p><p>He came around the table to look and found that he, too, felt suddenly thousands of miles away from himself.</p><p>He took the monkey from its box.</p><p>“I never thought I would lay eyes on this little fellow again,” he said fondly. “He was my only friend for so long."</p><p>He wound it up and a tinkling melody began to play.</p><p>“Do you remember the first time you saw this?”</p><p>“Yes,” she said, her voice soft, girlish, and very far away. “The night ‘Hannibal’ opened."</p><p>He turned, delight spreading through his body at the sound of her voice and the look in her eyes. "You sang so magnificently that night, Christine."</p><p>She shook her head as if clearing out cobwebs and sounded much more herself when she spoke again. “I wasn’t the only one."</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I remember you singing to me that night,” she said, screwing up her face in concentration. "How did it go?”</p><p>She began to sing, “…silently the senses abandon their defenses…"</p><p>His blush was unmistakable, even from behind his mask. “You weren’t meant to remember that.”</p><p>“I didn’t until just now.” She frowned. "Erik, what was that? Some kind of spell?”</p><p>“No,” he admitted, a cornered magician revealing his tricks. "Simple hypnosis. You… you are especially susceptible to it."</p><p>“And precisely how often did you do this to me?”</p><p>“At first I used it to build up your confidence when you were still just a sad little girl whose spirits I was trying to lift. I planted the suggestion in your mind that you were a star. You did the rest.”</p><p>“No wonder I thought you were an angel.” She sank onto the sofa, absorbing this information before looking up at him again sternly.  “And that’s all you ever used it for? You never… touched me when I was like that?”</p><p>He sat beside her. “When you were older, and you became curious about who I was, I used it to keep you from turning around and seeing me when we sang together. And that night on the lake… yes, I touched you. But not in the way you may be thinking.</p><p>“I am a monster in many ways and I admit to it freely; but I am not the sort of man who takes advantage of unconscious women."</p><p>“Well that’s good to hear,” she said. "But I don’t want you playing around with my mind again. Not ever. Not without my permission.”</p><p>“As you wish.”</p><p>Another long silence descended between them.</p><p>“You’ve changed,” she said at last.</p><p>“Have I?”</p><p>“Yes. I used to be afraid of you. Not of your face, but of what you might do. You were so quick to grab for control, so terribly dangerous when wounded, and far too easy to wound. You’re different now. Why?”</p><p>By way of an answer, he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a small wooden box, ornately carved. He opened it to reveal two scraps of fabric. One was iridescent blue, hemmed neatly on three sides with the fourth oddly torn. The other was a scrap of white cotton, hemmed on all four sides, with a hole torn through it, stained with blood.</p><p>“What is this?”</p><p>“Do you not recognize your dress, Christine? Or Gustave’s shirt?”</p><p>“From the night on the pier?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She looked from the scraps to his face, puzzled. “Why would you keep these?"</p><p>“This,” he pointed to the jagged edge of the blue fabric, "is where the bullet almost struck you. It tore the top of your skirt, very near the bodice. An inch to the left and you would almost certainly have been killed. And this, Gustave’s shirt, I…” his voice clouded with tears. "I keep these with me always, to remind me how close I came to losing the two most precious people in the world to me because I was so desperate for control and blinkered by my own self-inflicted suffering.”</p><p>“Oh Erik,” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I see.”</p><p>“What do you see, Christine?”</p><p>“I see a man who is trying to be better in all the ways that matter.”</p><p>“Trying or succeeding?”</p><p>“That depends on who defines success, now doesn’t it?”</p><p>They had been drawing ever nearer, and Christine now found herself perilously close to him. The warmth of his body, the agony in his voice, the pleading in his eyes - threatened to overwhelm her.</p><p>He stroked her cheek and she reached up to stop his hand.</p><p>She leaned forward very slowly and kissed him on his bare cheek, very close to his lips.</p><p>“I think you should go now, before I do something I will regret.”</p><p>He stood, took her hand, and kissed it.</p><p>“Goodnight, Christine."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. I am anxious her career should progress</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Erik’s body thrummed as he maneuvered his carriage through the mostly deserted streets of Manhattan. Christine's kiss burned against his cheek; a fiery gift from his angel, this goddess he worshiped. The words <em>she still loves me</em> raced through his mind, an endless reprise of hope.</p><p>When at last he guided the carriage through the gates of Phantasma and burst through the doors of his suite, he did not so much as stop to remove his coat and hat before putting pen to paper.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>2 February, 1906</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Dear Oscar,</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I understand that you have been in talks with Miss Daaé regarding future performances at your opera house. Rest assured that I shall make no further attempt to upend your negotiations.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I am writing at this time to suggest that it would be in your best interests to inquire subtly about Miss Daaé’s work as a composer and pianist. She’ll be furious with me if she realizes I put you up to it, but there really is a treasure trove there.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>All the best to you, my friend.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Yours,</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Erik</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>He folded the letter and addressed it, adorned it with his seal, and placed it in the tray outside his door. Kazu would see that it was posted first thing in the morning.</p><p>Then he sat down, put pen to paper again, and began to write an aria.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. What endless longings echo in this whisper?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An excerpt from the diary of Christine Daaé</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>2 February, 1906</p><p>I cannot sleep. My whole body is awake with life and promise. I swore that I would not be drawn back in like this, but I practically had to shove him out the door to keep from throwing myself into his arms tonight.</p><p>Is this feeling simply the echo of a little girl longing for her angel, or do I love him as a woman loves a man? </p><p>I thought I knew the answer the night that I chose him, but in truth I scarcely knew him then. I understand him a little better now; but even so, he remains a stranger to me in many ways. </p><p>He may always yearn for me, but could he remain by my side if I said I’d have him? Or does he only love me when he believes he cannot have me? </p><p>How could I ever trust him enough to be with him after all I have seen him do?</p><p>And yet he seems changed. He is kind and patient with Gustave. He agreed to pay for Meg’s hospitalization at once when I asked him to. He has even ceased his attempts to woo and control me, although I do not doubt that he would be in my bed in an instant if I said I wanted him there.</p><p>And the trouble is that I do want him there; but I know that if I were to re-open that door, he would rush through it and consume me utterly. It is more important to me now to guard this fragile independence I have found.</p><p>And so, for now at least, I shall continue to keep my distance.</p><p>I pray that I will know better how to proceed in time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Just the same as then</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>10 February, 1906</p><p>Dearest Meg,</p><p>Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I have begun this letter many times only to have words desert me. But I cannot leave your letter unanswered any longer and so here is the sincerest accounting of my thoughts.</p><p>Of course I forgive you.</p><p>I’ll admit I was angry with you for a time; but I have also always understood that you were not in your right mind that night, and that you meant no harm to anyone but yourself. I won’t pretend to understand the nature of the work you did for Erik when you first arrived here, but it sounds as if it was an ordeal and you have my sympathy.</p><p>As for Erik overlooking you at every turn, please try not to take that as a judgement of your talents or your loveliness. When something (or someone) becomes the subject of his interest, Erik tends to forget that anything else exists. </p><p>Please trust me when I say that for the entirety of our acquaintance, I have known that the angel of music blessed you from birth. Your whole body is a song, Meg. Never forget that dancers have wings of their own.</p><p>I have one thing to ask of you, however. Write to Gustave and express your apology directly to him. He does appear to have permanent nerve damage in his hand, which has changed the course of his musicianship and causes him sorrow, though he says little about it.</p><p>If we are to be in one another’s lives, as I hope that we can be, then I need to know that you have made amends to him and that he has accepted them of his own volition.</p><p>I will continue to pray for your recovery.</p><p>Warmly,<br/>
Christine</p>
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<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Brava, brava, bravissima</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A clipping from the Sunday Arts Section of the <i>New York Times</i>.</p>
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    <p>
  <strong>FRENCH SOPRANO CHRISTINE DAAÉ STUNS NEW YORK</strong>
</p><p>by Ethan Russ<br/>
March 11, 1906</p><p>NEW YORK - Concertgoers at Oscar Hammerstein’s Manhattan Opera House were treated to a marvelous gala last night, featuring one of Europe’s leading sopranos: Ms. Christine Daaé. </p><p>Ms. Daaé had previously been engaged to sing at the venue’s opening some months ago, but was waylaid by what her spokesman called “a serious family matter.” Mr. Hammerstein could not have been pleased, but after last night’s performance, this reporter imagines that he will be quick to forgive.</p><p>Ms. Daaé sang several of her most famous arias, including the “Jewel Song” from Gounod’s “Faust,” "Der Hölle Rache” from Mozart’s “Die Zauberflöte,” and finally "Pense à Moi” from Chalumeau’s “Hannibal,” the aria that catapulted her to stardom more than ten years ago. Ms. Daaé delivered each selection with her trademark clarity, stunning intonation, and the seasoned warmth of a veteran actress.</p><p>If she had shared only these pieces with us, it would have been enough; but what came next was a surprise for all assembled; for it seems that Christine Daaé is not only a singular voice on the operatic stage, but also a composer and pianist of no small accomplishment. For her second act, she performed an original piano concerto that was both innnovative and extraordinarily emotionally resonant.</p><p>Indeed, New York fell in love last night, and it appears that the feeling is entirely mutual. According to Mr. Hammerstein, Ms. Daaé intends to remain with us indefinitely.</p><p>We eagerly await her next performance.</p>
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<a name="section0038"><h2>38. You chose to turn the page</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The relative humility of Raoul’s new home surprised Christine. For a man so accustomed to comfort, this was a serious step down. Its one true luxury was a relatively large private garden, which was where where she and Gustave spent the bulk of their visit.</p><p>“There are so many butterflies!” exclaimed Gustave, skipping backwards just ahead of them as they walked after lunch. </p><p>“Yes, we planted several bushes to attract them. There’s one just along the path if you want to have a look at them up close.”</p><p>Gustave ran off.</p><p>“He’s getting so big,” said Raoul. “And so athletic. I’d hardly have known him for the same boy who left here a year ago.”</p><p>“He has a lovely group of friends in New York,” said Christine. “All boys from the neighborhood who run around and play some absurd game they call ’stick ball’ every afternoon.”</p><p>Raoul grinned. “I think every boy in every part of the world has invented some version ‘stick ball’ at one time or another in history.”</p><p>She giggled. “Indeed."</p><p>"You both seem happy, Christine. I’m glad for you.”</p><p>He said this so genuinely and kindly that Christine could find no artifice in it. She was pleased to see that he was moving on. </p><p>“You must know how grateful I am that you’ve returned to visit," he began. "But I have one more thing to ask of you."</p><p>“What do you need?”</p><p>“I would like your consent to seek an annulment of our marriage.”</p><p>This was not what she had expected him to say and she felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She had understood from the night Gustave was shot that she and Raoul could never live as husband and wife again, but in her mind they were still joined in the eyes of God and the church. The idea that this could be torn asunder had never occurred to her.</p><p>A thousand questions raced through her mind, but she settled on, “on what grounds.”</p><p>“For the past few months, I have been meeting daily with Father Emmanuel from Sacré-Cœur. It has only been with his guidance and God’s help that I have been able to give up drinking. After much prayer and contemplation, I believe that I am receiving a call to join the priesthood. But I cannot attend seminary while remaining married.</p><p>“Given the fact that Gustave is not technically my son, and that you conceived him out of wedlock, Father Emmanuel thinks that the church would grant an annulment on the grounds of infidelity; but of course I would never pursue such a course without your blessing.”</p><p>She was quiet for several minutes as she pushed the chair.</p><p>“This would mean we’d need to tell Gustave the truth.”</p><p>“I will leave that to you, Christine."</p><p>After another minute’s silence, she finally said, “I think this is wonderful news, Raoul. If God is calling you to be a priest then who am I to stand in His way? Especially because neither of you have stood in mine."</p>
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<a name="section0039"><h2>39. What an awful mistake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>March 20, 1906</p><p>Dear Gustave,</p><p>Please accept my humble apology for the horror I put you through last year.</p><p>Nothing, not even a nervous breakdown, could excuse the danger I placed you in. I understand that you likely have suffered a permanent injury to your hand, which is a calamity for a young pianist. Not a moment goes by in which I am unaware that I am to blame for this measure of your suffering.</p><p>As you likely know, I have been in a hospital upstate since just a few days after the incident on the pier. I am resolved not to depart here until I am quite certain that I will never do anything like that again. </p><p>I hope that you can find it within your heart to forgive me for the harm I have caused you. I will understand entirely if you cannot.</p><p>Respectfully,<br/>
Meg Giry</p>
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<a name="section0040"><h2>40. A strange, sweet sound</h2></a>
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    <p>"Your whole body is a song.”</p><p>The words reverberated through Meg Giry like a peal of church bells. </p><p>She carried them like a talisman as she swam every morning, as she met with her psychiatrist, as she did her chores, ate her meals, read or played cards with the other patients in the evenings.</p><p>And as she lay in bed at night, she held the letter to her breast and imagined she could smell the faintest hint of rosewater on the page.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I intend to finish this story but I need to take a step away for at least a month to handle some professional and personal issues. I'm excited to finish it and I thank you for your patience.</p>
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